


BBC Sherlock: DEATH WISH

by Wynsom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Best Friends, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 14:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynsom/pseuds/Wynsom
Summary: Post Season 4: Widower and devoted father to Rosie, John Watson would never admit he was bored with the enforced domesticity, but as Mary had once observed, "John needs to run every now and then." After receiving a mysterious letter about murder, Sherlock Holmes may have found the perfect case to recruit John away from the tedium of benign routine.This story, especially the final two chapters, offers a canon-compliant interpretation of the BBC characters. It puts to rest the dogs of despair and heartache that perpetually snapped at their heels so they can "get on with it!" The "it" being, their legendary selves, the Great Sherlock Holmes and the Amazing Dr. John Watson. Chapters: 18 - Published: 5/24/2018 - Complete





	1. The Offer

  

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**_"I write to yew, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to tell 'bout murder. Mr. Cain of Mearcstapa, wuz grotesk, an abominashun. Guess for many, them mayn't be reason for murder, but I plotted vengeance and kill him just the same."_ **

Dr. John Watson stopped reading aloud and looked up.

"What the  _h_ —?"

His gaze darted first to the addressee seated in the leather armchair, then sheepishly to his daughter who played contentedly at his feet. Mindful of his salty language, John regarded Rosie with paternal concern. His twenty-month-old was expanding her vocabulary at an impressive rate. Although, at the moment, the toddler seemed preoccupied with the  _Number Zoo Wooden Puzzle_  Sherlock had at hand for such occasional Watson family visits to 221B, John knew those little ears were catching everything.

"Observe what you are holding in your hand, John!" Sherlock eagerly interjected. "Notice the language lacks formal training. The misspellings reflect a regional dialect. See how the script appears stylish yet less than well-formed like someone with a weak or arthritic hand; the message is written on stationery with a floral design from the late 1950s, maybe early 1960s, it's yellowed with age, and musty smelling. The envelope is worn and folded many times apparently to fit in a wallet or purse." Perched on the edge of his seat, the detective was showing considerable restraint—was it patience?—seemingly unfazed by the nappy-changing delay Rosie had caused when the Watsons had first arrived. "Although it is misspelled, 'grotesque' suggests something tragic and terrible. Continue reading."

"Right," John agreed although somewhat distracted by his observations of his daughter. Where he stood beside the table that served as Sherlock's desk, John repeatedly checked the carpet for dangerous objects within reach of Rosie's chubby fingers. She was prone to putting anything in her mouth to soothe her teething gums. Convinced after a bit of obsessing that it had been recently hoovered _—thank you, Mrs. Hudson—_ John at last relaxed, reassured that Rosie occupied a child-friendly area sucked clean of debris.

"Read on, John," Sherlock encouraged with thoughtful face and a knowing nod before closing his eyes. He tilted his head to listen and joined his fingertips, entwining and folding all but the index fingers as he leant back in his leather chair.

"Wee'yon, yah," Rosie mimicked her godfather's inflection. Her bright eyes were riveted on the yellow number eight puzzle piece in her hand when suddenly she squealed "Dadda" as if she were correcting Sherlock for calling her father by another name.

A half-smile flitted over John's face at his daughter's outburst.  _Clever girl!_  He cleared his throat. "I don't get it, Sherlock. You've read this multiple times. Why are you insisting I read it aloud to you?"

"It is better when I hear it from you, John," Sherlock spoke softly at first, as if to himself, before fluttering his crystal blue eyes open and readjusting his volume to normal. "Your initial and emotional reactions to its contents lend fresh insight to the words. It's a simple request," Sherlock gave John an impatient frown. "Oblige me."

"Ssshuh-sshuh," Rosie cooed and slammed the wooden eight several times into the wrong-shaped space until she found the right one and slid it in.

John chuckled softly. Rosie's attempt to say  _Sherlock_ triggered his second lopsided grin in as many minutes. Lord knows, the men had associated with enough frequency, especially when Sherlock showed up wanting to test his theories about local cases or to bounce off critical analysis against his "sounding-board." For the toddler,"Ssshu-sshu" was a household name as he was a regular presence.

John rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath before continuing.

**" _He wuz a mystery man, a loner. I discovered his savagery far too late. He wuz a clever monster and hide his deeds in the fenlands. Time I larnt the truth, I culdn't change what he'd done."_**

**_"Whenever he be dead_ — _soon I hope_ — _folk might athink Cain die at home of accident or cause of nature, but dornt believe that. His death willn't be natural and not accidental. I know cuz I will make sure he die, one way or nother, by my hand."_**

"Wait! "John looked up again. " _Now_  I really don't get  _this_.  _Will make sure...?_ Is this Cain fellow dead or not?"

"Keep reading," Sherlock urged.

"Pweep-ding," Sherlock's echo said as she banged the wooden puzzle pieces gleefully.

**_"Yew must show my plan by investigatin', Mr. Holmes, what I do and how I do it to kill him. You go after facts and tell the police 'nd allus the people. They shuld know, all of them, that I kill him. It wuz the ony way."_ **

"Soooo…" John pursed his lips as he puzzled it out. "The murderer wants to get caught? Sounds like someone with a death wish."

Sherlock was barely able to restrain his grin, but he motioned John to continue.

"Wee'yon, Dada!" Rosie stated while focusing on the captivating colors and shapes. "Pweep-ding."

_**"For his deeds, he deserve to die. I don't afreard police will get me for me killing him, Mr. Holmes. They can't reach me where I at. I be dead already, yew see.** "_

"Huh? Then who sent this letter?" John shuffled the envelope from behind the note and peered at the post mark. "It was sent a day ago? From  _here_...London?"

"Wee'yon, Dada," Rosie repeated. "Pweep-ding.  _Huh_?"

Now John was too distracted to notice his daughter's mimicry.

**_"I die now first, but I know I'll see me revenge. Culd be he be dead by the time yew get this post. If not, he will be. If yew find him still alive_ — _he will be asuffering, I hope_ —then  _yew may tell him I sent yew for justice sake. For this reason, I appeal to yew, Mr. Holmes, to tell the authorities and the world the whole truth about how and why my husband, Harmen Grendel Cain, deserve to die."_**

**_Forever,_ **

**_B. Winifred Cain_ **

" _A-HA!_ Charming, she is, _"_  John drew in a breath. "' _Forever!'_  Seriously, now? This… B. Winifred Cain doesn't want for sarcasm, does she?

"She is a  _spirited_  one!" Sherlock replied with a shamefacedly deliberate pun and an amused gleam in his eyes. He grabbed the armrests of his chair and propelled himself out of the seat. Deftly sidestepping Rosie, he fidgeted with unmistakable excitement. "What do you make of this, John?"

Finding himself in the all-too familiar Holmesian stare—at full intensity—John nodded in agreement before looking away. "Intriguing! If I understand it. The dead wife somehow killed or is killing her husband. There is no clear motive,  _yet._ There's no certain means,  _yet_. The intended victim may not even be dead,  _yet_. Curious indeed."

"This has promise, John!" Sherlock nearly leapt in the air, but rather than succumb to his dangerous jubilance with Rosie underfoot, he merely cheered, "Finally, something different! I see it now…." Like an actor on the stage, he swept his hand in a capacious arc to capture John's imagination. "A trip to the village; an inspection of the premises; a visit to the dying man or if we are too late, a request for his autopsy to determine cause..."

" _We?"_  John stopped hard and scowled with a subtle shake of his head.

_We._ The single word filled the silence between them with meaning and questions.

" _We,_ " Sherlock insisted, the damper of his friend's curt reply extinguishing some of his exuberance. John's resistance was not unexpected. Their lives had been seriously altered by what had happened between them, to them, around them. After months of dodging the possibility, however, Sherlock had done the inevitable; he had just made the long-overdue, the long-expected offer.

Now it was up to John.

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* * *

A.N. All Sherlock Holmes disclaimers apply. However I wish to extend my utmost thanks to my devoted englishtutor who always encourages me and my nameless expert in Canon Holmes who has done her due diligence to challenge me, to strengthen my ideas, and to refine my word choices. As neither has seen the final version of this chaptered fanfiction, any errors remaining are entirely my own.

On those occasions when I've needed to quote BBC content, I have probably referred to any of the transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan, so I am quick to acknowledge and be forever grateful for this tremendous body of work.


	2. The Hurdle

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**_000_ **

Although the menace of Eurus had been resolved months ago, John's ordeal at the bottom of the Musgrave Estate's well had been a defining moment. It had made his intentions to continue the partnership with Sherlock decidedly more nebulous than it had been upon reconciling after Mary's death. An ordinary man would have cited near-death-by-drowning as reason enough to terminate any relationship with the troublesome Sherlock Holmes. While John Watson was not an  _ordinary_  man, in the aftermath of what had occurred, he had to consider seriously the dangerous ramifications of continuing to work with Sherlock. Ultimately*, he had concluded that NOT working with Sherlock would make them  _both_  more vulnerable to adversaries within the criminal element. Once he informed Sherlock of his decision, they both agreed to continue associating—perhaps less closely—on cases whenever Rosie's needs and time allowed.

This shared decision, however, left room for considerable interpretation. They both knew Sherlock would not turn away clients because John was unavailable. Cases still required solving—which the detective did—but without the distinct advantage of John's illumination.

From a practical standpoint, Sherlock was reluctant to involve John on cases that rated a five or above on his  _Crime Scene Interest Scale_ —he couldn't allow his friend to take the risks. Subsequently, he resisted soliciting John for high-level investigations and never mentioned his solo ventures to his partner. There was no need to rub the proverbial salt in the wound or cause John to express worry over Sherlock's safety—neither of those responses would have been welcomed. For these reasons, Sherlock kept silent.

Still, staying off John's radar during such cases, since the man was preoccupied with raising a daughter and no longer lived in Baker Street, required simply suppressing the Holmes name in news accounts. Except, after each such jaunt—as if Sherlock's brief absences had been noticed—John would ring up the detective with a variation of the same question. "…Anything of interest, Sherlock?"

"… Some…, but none requiring a  _team_  effort," Sherlock would answer vaguely to remain within the parameters of truth. He found John's timing suspicious as if John's radar—powered by intuition, not solid knowledge—had detected activity. Sherlock even speculated from time to time if John surreptitiously kept tabs on Baker Street.

The low-level cases he could share with John were usually provided by the excessively needy Met bombarding Sherlock with "busy work." All too frequently a random Met detective (definitely sent by Lestrade in collusion with Mycroft to keep Sherlock occupied) would show up at the detective's door, politely asking for advice. Because police resources had been spread thin by the elevated terrorist alerts across the Greater London area, Sherlock accepted those cases from the bumbling idiots as a favor to Scotland Yard, the hapless victims of each case, and his beloved and beleaguered City; also because he could include John.

For these latter cases, Sherlock visited the Watson household—on occasions John came round to 221B—to share aspects of the investigation and to seek John's indispensable insights.

It quickly became clear to Sherlock that John was not all right with  _this_  arrangement, and the approaching anniversary of Mary's death was making it that much harder. During their recent consultations, Sherlock observed a recurring twitch in John's cheek and the flex of his fist, tells that the  _man of action_  was not content to be a  _passive_  partner. John was enduring the mundane life he had chosen for the sake of his daughter.

With each passing month of enforced domesticity, John obsessed more over his daughter, grew more ornery, more stultified, his edge blunted by the tedium of benign routine. He would never admit he was bored, but as Mary had once observed, "John needed to run" every now and then. Seeing the growing tension in his friend, Sherlock concurred with her wisdom.

In Sherlock's opinion, this case of the  _murdered husband by the dead wife_  was perfect to get John out and running. He named his plan  _The John Experiment_ and was ready to put it to the test.

**_000_ **

It was just as obvious by the sour expression on John's face what he was thinking about Sherlock's offer. It didn't take a deductive genius to recognize his conflict between piqued curiosity and duty to his progeny. The set of the brave widower's jaw, the deeper lines in his forehead, the sudden inward focus that darkened the excitement in John's deep blue eyes—all heralded that a battle had been engaged.

"No, Sherlock," John muttered, his eyes studying his shoes, "I'm  _not ready_  for what you are proposing."

But Sherlock had been  _ready_  for John's reaction and had formulated a plan; one he hoped might allay his friend's stubborn resolve. Before reeling John in and away from his "dedicated" family time on a brisk November Saturday, the detective had plotted a two-fold strategy: to enlist the overprotective father on this particular adventure and to ensure the child was properly cared for while they were away. It required shifting schedules with the surgery, seeking cooperation within the Watson household from the childminder—Sherlock would pay Erika's overtime—and recruiting several backups among willing friends. John's staunch determination to parent his daughter without appealing elsewhere—beyond his contract with his childminder—had earned him the admiration of families within his suburban community. For Sherlock, it was a curious manifestation of social behavior; the more John Watson refused help, the more others wanted to lend support. Once he understood this peculiar human formula, Sherlock predicated the success of his scheme on it to secure assistance for his friend.

Voicing a similar opinion several hours prior, Mrs. Hudson had stood with her arms akimbo to supervise Sherlock hoovering his prized new Ushak—since the old one had been vaporized in the explosion—with her borrowed machine. Only she knew it was not so strange a sight as it had once been now that potential visitors to Baker Street included a toddler. Taking advantage of her hoover-lending service, she had shared her niggling two cents about John being a bit excessive with his paternal commitment.

"Our John is such a good father,  _too_  good, sometimes," her chirping voice somehow pierced the loud thrum of the vacuum. "The dear man won't  _ever_  ask for help, but it would do him good. Yes, I know he has a childminder when he goes to work," Mrs. Hudson pressed her index finger against her crepey lips, her brown eyes wide with sympathy as she wagged her head thoughtfully, "but when he's home alone, it's a lot to ask of one person, man or woman!" She sighed and tisked softly, "Poor man…"

Sherlock had been tolerating her remarks, especially as he couldn't argue with her when she was right, but the pity in her voice rapidly thinned his patience. _What is she_ ON _about? John should not be pitied. Rather, John deserved respect for how he handled every adversity, great or small._ Sherlock held his tongue. While Martha Hudson was much cleverer than she appeared and her advice insightful at times, Sherlock knew that encouraging her with confidences, especially about John, would result in an increased frequency of her visits upstairs. Sherlock wanted to avoid resurrecting her unwelcomed expressions of sorrow for the detective's solitary life in the flat he had once shared with his friend. Even so, Sherlock had to admit to himself that he missed having  _good_  discussions and always looked forward to John's rare visits there.

Hoovering with exaggerated vigor and studying the usual household detritus before it was sucked up by the wand helped Sherlock withstand his landlady's mind-numbing jabbering. Crumbs, lint, scraps, and bits of debris—minutiae that would provide tangible clues at a crime scene—along with his precious dust made Sherlock wish he had been collecting for analysis.

"Sherlock, dear, maybe you should tidy up the top of your desk a bit. Little ones have reaching fingers… if the falling books don't hurt her, they can frighten…"

_Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!_ Tempted as he was, Sherlock controlled his impulse to shout at her. Instead, he dragged the vacuum cleaner like a ball and chain across the room, under the chairs and around the table. On balance, he had borrowed his landlady's machine in anticipation of John's visit.  _Perhaps it's time to purchase my own hoover._

Self-control was difficult, but verbal provocations were no longer part of Sherlock's ready arsenal. This long-honed and deliberate technique that exposed the workings of the criminally minded in a challenging face-off had backfired horribly when Vivian Norbury fired the fatal bullet that killed Mary. Staggered by this heartbreaking loss, the detective found reason to practice restraint, although his performance was not yet perfect. While he still could not fathom  _how_  the sane managed to deal with troublesome, irritating, deceitful, and painfully annoying people without calling them out, Sherlock was learning the subtle art of sarcasm, something John had refined at his expense when they were flatmates. Rather than bang his head against the wall in frustration or throw a dreadful fit to make Mrs. Hudson stop harping on the subject of John—or anything else for that matter—Sherlock swallowed his words and hoovered more aggressively.

Adroitly he danced the machine down the hall as Mrs. Hudson hovered behind him, dropping her pesky pearls of wisdom. "John needs a break, Sherlock! You should see to it he gets one. He'll listen to you. If not you, who? To think of him raising a child all alone… I don't know how he does it without M—"

A pang of remorse, a reactive grimace at nearly hearing the name uttered and  _poof—_ Mrs. Hudson had vanished; Sherlock had thoroughly tuned out his landlady.

He distracted himself further from reopening self-recriminations about Mary by keeping his sharp eyes on the carpet and rehearsing his proposal that would achieve the desired end—to have John join him on a case. But it couldn't just be any case. It had to fit neatly into set parameters that would be neither fraught with danger nor time-consuming, but still intriguing and worth investigating. Something like this had been a long time coming, and finally Sherlock knew he had an ideal scenario—if not rare an opportunity—a day trip or two to visit the crime scene, since the murderer had already provided clues. It was merely an opportunity, an outing because there was no substitute for first-hand evidence. Once they had gathered all the evidence, examining the clues in his own lab would be child's play.

It would be like old times—well, the  _best_  of those old times.

 

"So this is why we cut short our visit to the zoo?" John's remark broke through Sherlock's reverie.

With a frustrated sigh, John realized it was his own fault for succumbing to Sherlock's cryptic text:  _stop_   _by_. Such texts from Sherlock had become rare and John's curiosity had been piqued.

Rosie's little hand tugged on her father's trouser leg. "Up, me?" she questioned him with vivid bluish-green eyes so like her mother's.

John lifted his daughter and balanced her on his hip. Nestling against him, she curled her arm around his neck in a tight grip. As he caressed a golden curl from her forehead, he recognized Mary's eyes staring back at him.

"Dada?" Rosie whined softly and poked at the grim line of his lips. "All gone. Bye bye. Ssshuh-sshuh?"

"Soon, my lamb," John answered with a kiss to her cheek, aware her happy mood was crumbling. Teething pain had been making her irritable of late; the novelty of Sherlock's flat having worn off coupled with keeping her in a restricted safe zone on the carpet was beginning to takes its toll. John turned to his friend. "Time for us to go—"

"—Wait, John!" Sherlock commandeered curtly at first, swiftly switching to a softer voice in the next breath. "Please—"

The  _please_  worked. John halted, as surprised by it as Sherlock was in himself for using it.

With John's undivided attention, Sherlock continued, "Look. I know…this will be the first  _real_  case since… we...since things with Eurus…" Sherlock pondered the drapes framing the massive double windows overlooking Baker Street, "…in quite a while. There might be a way to employ the _team_  effort on this one." When he had finished speaking, his eyes returned to his long-time partner.

John's head-shaking bespoke his hesitancy.

"You may want to hear me out before you decide," Sherlock countered, testy with frustration. " _We_ can conduct this investigation with minimal disruptions to Rosie's routines. I can show you. Let me prove it. If I do, then, would you consider it?"

John tilted his head and gave a slight nod that he was listening.

Sherlock pulled out a spreadsheet, marked in his distinctive hand, outlining times, dates, goals, Rosie's schedule down to potty visits and bath times, along with the expected investigative outcomes. He placed it on the table for John to see. The entire mapping of the investigation was impressive, but the fact that Sherlock had laid out his plan so plainly and shared it with John  _before_  they ventured forth was game-changing.

"This…this  _could_  work… in theory…yeah," John conceded softly after Sherlock finished pointing at the spreadsheet and providing persuasive clarifications.

Rosie sought solace at being ignored by grabbing a lock of her father's hair with her one fist and shoving her other fist in her mouth to soothe her gums. She watched her Dada's lips as he spoke.

"If  _everyone_ —Erika, Mrs. Hudson, the surgery, my neighbors—if they all agree to the scheme of yours..."

"They will…."

"How can you be so sure?"

Sherlock threw a tentative glance at John before looking down without answering.

"No!" John gasped, the flush of embarrassment heating his temper. "You've already gone ahead and asked them?"

"They volunteered," Sherlock snapped defensively, " _well_ , as soon as I alerted them to this opportunity. Erika agreed wholeheartedly and she reminded me that your immediate neighbor Mrs.  _Whatever-her-name-is_  is always asking to help. Scheduling at the surgery was hardly an issue. Apparently you've been refusing some long-overdue holiday time—now's as good a time as any to do something  _useful_  with it. What's more, John, for months, I've had to bear the ear-piercing caterwauling of Mrs. Hudson," a whinging pitch in his baritone added the needed emphasis, "droning on and on and on about  _when_  you'd  _ever_  let her spend time with Rosie. We both know Molly promises to stand ready for emergency calls should a medical need arise."

Whether convinced by the proposed coverage for Rosie, the clearly delineated scope of the entire plan or by the actual appeal of going on an adventure, John overcame his initial indignation. The gleam of excitement returned to his eyes.

With John's defenses weakening at last, Sherlock moved fast. "John, it's for a short time—by car, under three hours, one-way. I imagine one full day…okay,  _maybe_ …an overnight..so two days. It shouldn't be more than three. Look, it's all in the plan! This is a case  _begging_  to be solved, and we don't have to hunt down the killer or rescue the intended victim. We just need to answer the puzzling questions: what outraged the wife and how did she kill her husband?"

Before John could offer his reply, Rosie thrust her wiggling fingers into his mouth and tugged hard on his lower lip.

"No!" John scolded and shook his head to free his mouth. Frown lines formed on his forehead. "No. Not good."

Sherlock remained silent, unsure if John was merely correcting his daughter or actually refusing the offer.

Rosie fussed, upset by her father's reprimand; her pout melted into a long wail, "Nawww!"

"Listen up, Rosie," John gave his daughter a stern look but spoke gently and firmly, "We're going now." He collected her jacket off the peg and knelt, bringing her down to the floor to stand while he put her arms through the coat sleeves. Once there, however, she exploded into a full tantrum and threw herself to the floor, wriggling and writhing.

Rosie's reaction drew Sherlock's suspicious scrutiny. Sorting through the various childhood development references he had committed to memory since the birth of the Watson's child, Sherlock quickly accessed the one on tantrums. Although child studies have long disputed whether tantrums from children this young were calculated manipulations, Sherlock wondered if Rosie had learnt a ploy to control her father. He recognized in the toddler's behavior the early stages of tactics he had deliberately employed himself as a little boy—petulance and untamed emotionalism—when feeling thwarted.

How much worse he had acted after Victor disappeared. Despite repressing the truth of that tragic memory, it had haunted him, reshaped him. Years later during investigations, Sherlock wielded the high-strung genius-act to cajole, persuade, and manipulate the idiot brains in authority and to bypass the roadblocks of red tape; anything and anyone who thwarted him met his indomitable will expressed in fractiousness, impudence, and incredulity at their utter stupidity. After a while, no one challenged his claim that he was a high-functioning sociopath; rather they embraced it and gave him a wide berth.

Even Mycroft, on guard for signs of his brother's precarious emotional stability—caused by the repressed trauma over Victor's loss—had suffered Sherlock's years of insufferable behaviors.

Until John Watson… the "bravest-kindest- wisest" morally principled man Sherlock had the good fortune to get as a flatmate had required the detective hold himself to a higher standard. And for some inexplicable reason—because it was John who  _believed_  this potential existed in Sherlock—what John believed had mattered to Sherlock.

Curious how John would handle his daughter in this emotional state, Sherlock stepped back and observed in silence.

Even though his former flatmate had given John some practice with tantrums, a sane man like John would never resort to the same strategies—yelling back with matching fury, retorting with sarcasm or wry but humorous asides, storming off, threatening a punch in the face—that had worked to tame Sherlock's outburst. For any child—especially his own child nearing her terrible twos—John instinctively knew to tread easy. A wrong response would only escalate his daughter's meltdown.

John counted under his breath and exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Rosie! Now, listen," he addressed the whirling dervish when she began to lose some steam. "Once your jacket is on, we can go home! Here. You can help me. One hand goes in the sleeve like this."

She lay on the floor sulking as he guided her fisted hand through one and then the other sleeve. When her struggling antics abated, he stood his daughter up to zip her jacket closed.

Watching her closely, Sherlock expected the child to continue her tantrum or try running off, but instead for the moment, she appeared bewildered as if the point of her outburst had been missed. The detective surmised a distraction was necessary to maintain control and rummaged through the Watson's knapsack for a toy or treat while John remained preoccupied.

"That's a good girl," John said kindly when it appeared he had her full cooperation. "Now see. I am putting on my jacket so we can go." His happy affect had nominal effect on the pouting child.

"Has the  _good_  girl earned an incentive before she goes?" Sherlock asked with arms hiding something behind his back as he approached them.

Surprised by Sherlock's question, John quickly caught on and nodded, "Yes. Good behavior gets rewarded. Right, Rosie?"

"My apologies for forgetting the  _actual_  child in the room," Sherlock said as he proffered the child his cupped hands in a smooth, swift move, partially hiding what they contained. He crouched before the little girl, noting the real tears that bejeweled her lashes, realizing the child had been genuine in her distress, likely the result of overall fatigue and hunger. She was not manipulating her father. Looking directly into her glistening eyes, Sherlock asked. "What do I have in my hands? Go on. It's for you, Rosie."

Her eyes widened with a curiosity so like John's. "Ssshuh-sshuh?" Rosie questioned and pried open the long fingers. Within the palms of Sherlock's hands rested her cherry red plastic cup—the lid removed—filled with golden bits of cheese and dark sultanas.

"Cheeez!" She exclaimed grabbing for the cup with delight, all bad temper completely evaporated, "sa tas!"

"You apparently packed this sensible treat, John, but neglected to dispense the nourishment in a timely fashion. ' _Children are natural grazers and need regular snacks and meals to stay on top of their fun and games,'_ so says the Zoo website _._ When did you last feed this child?" Sherlock mocked with amusement. "Even I know when to administer to my science experiments to keep a culture alive."

"We indulged in a children's lunchbox at the zoo…," John replied in a defensive huff, "…not  _that_  long ago …."

"If you didn't choose one of their healthier options, it was likely loaded with sugar along with crisps," Sherlock momentarily darted his eyes up toward John, "I image it triggered this post-sugar meltdown. I should know. It happens all the time to—."

"—She didn't really eat  _much_  of it," John mumbled.

"Hmmmmm!" Sherlock returned his gaze to the toddler. "So Dada ate your lunchbox? No wonder you're hungry."

"Yeah. She rebuffed the meal," John shuffled his feet. "I wasn't about to bin it."

Amused, Sherlock confided in the little girl, "Don't fret, you're in good hands. Believe it or not, your Dada has had lots of practice, especially when I was bored and hungry for challenging cases...," his tone became serious. There was a shadow of remorse on the face he turned toward John, but after a subtle shake of his head, he gave the little girl an engaging smile, "…You see? He's smart. He had this treat prepared to make things better."

Rosie remained focused on the cup in her hands and plucked ravenously at the contents. The rate at which the tiny chunks of cheese and dried fruit disappeared into her little mouth prompted light chuckles from Sherlock.

"Her eating habits bear a striking resemblance to yours, John—" he teased behind a lopsided grin.

Touched by his friend's easy interaction with his daughter, John fumbled for a comeback to Sherlock's taunt. None came.

Her mouth full, Rosie pushed the hurriedly empty cup back toward Sherlock. "Maw, pweez! Ssshuh-sshuh?"

"How about your juice, young Watson?" Sherlock magically produced her matching sippy cup.

Rosie giggled and clapped her hands, displaying the baby teeth within her drooling grin.

From his squatting position, Sherlock inspected her open mouth beyond the gooey mash of cheese plastered on her lips. "Ah, ha! Her upper canines are filling in the gaps between the incisors and first molars, John, right on schedule," he remarked without turning his head, clearly fascinated by the revelation of her age-appropriate teething timeline.

"Okay. I'll do it." John's soft voice drifted from above.

It took Sherlock an instant to understand. He rose slowly, eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted in a question as he considered his friend.

John's smile was more veiled than his daughter's, but he nodded his assent as he met Sherlock's glance. "Yes. You heard me right. I'll do it. " He slung the nappy knapsack over one shoulder and lifted his contented daughter before turning toward the landing.

"Bye bye. Ssshuh-sshuh." The little arm stretched around her father's neck, the dimpled hand flexed its fingers while the cherub face peeked over his shoulder, "Bye bye."

Waving goodbye to the toddler, Sherlock tossed questions at his friend's retreating back. "Tomorrow morning? Say half eight? Meet you at your flat...we'll motor in your car?"

"I know," John swiveled his head to catch Sherlock's eye and deliberately held his gaze. "I read all  _that_  on your spreadsheet. Yes. It's all fine," he added softly as if to reassure himself.

The detective let father and daughter go without another word. He tilted his head listening to John's rhythmic footfalls descending the seventeen steps to the ground floor.

"Bye bye. Ssshuh-sshuh. Home nah," the wee voice sing-songed as the front door opened.

Sherlock waited until the door had shut completely behind them before leaping in the air and crowing a satisfied, " _YES!"_  at the ceiling.

**888***888**

* * *

_A_ _N:_ *See my earlier Post Season 4 fanfiction,  _BBC Sherlock: Life After Death,_ that explores John's decision to continue The Work with Sherlock, which is referenced in the first paragraph of this chapter.


	3. Afoot

888***888

"As I've said before…" Sherlock opened the passenger door, too eager to wait until John had shifted the Audi safely into park. With one foot planted on the gravel drive in the visitor carpark, Sherlock propped his opposite elbow on the roof and spoke half in, half out of the car, "…if this  _is_ Harmen G. Cain—of which I am most certain—finding him not yet dead but languishing in  _this_  hospital will be a tremendous advantage in our investigation." Dropping back into his seat, he addressed John's raised brow of surprise. "You needn't be shocked by my repetition,  _some_  things bear repeating." In the next instant Sherlock launched himself fully from the car and slammed the door.

The detective studied the expansive medical facility; Fenshire District Hospital was engraved in a modern font across the concrete lintel. The four-storied-high Gothic Revival structure was graced by age despite its darker past as an asylum for the insane. Wispy scarves of fog veiled the massive stone façade above the turned-column entrance. As the ghostly brume climbed slowly, it coiled around the array of triple lancet windows and the front-facing gables, clinging to the turret and decorative Victorian trim like a snake.

"The old Brumehelm Asylum!" John said under his breath. He sat and gazed through the windscreen, shaking off a slight shiver before opening his door. He could not forget what he had learnt during his medical training nor shed his disgust about the half-century of abhorrent practices that had tarnished its reputation.

In the late 1800s, the Brumehelm Asylum was a psychiatric facility near King's Lynn in the Fenlands district. It was residence to the malformed, the misunderstood, the miscreant, and the miserable—no matter whether man, woman, or child—who were afflicted in one form or other by mental illness or defect. But it was not the inhabitants who caused its shame. Rather, it was the superintendents, directors and medical staff who had kept hidden the heinous acts against the defenseless patients. Later chronicled in various modern medical journals studied by students and practicing physicians alike, the Asylum's atrocities were ranked among the worst abuses on record. Patients had been manacled to the wall and left lying in their own filth, swathed in soiled sheets, abandoned for hours, or unwashed for months. Others were controlled by laudanum and opium, purposely rendering them nearly comatose and often left with little food or drink. Treatments to which these patients were commonly exposed were not just limited to mental or physical cruelty, but often included experimentation and torture disguised as 'medical' treatments.

In the 1940s, the Ministry of Health took the single most effective action to rectify the barbarities going on behind the steel-barred doors. It shut the Asylum down completely; the building was fully evacuated and left in disrepair. Only the ghosts of the tormented were rumored to roam the decaying halls. After remaining derelict and shuttered for nearly forty years, the facility underwent a costly renaissance, its terrible history autoclaved by sweeping reforms in national health programs and extensive interior renovations—leaving little trace of the horror chambers and cramped cells.

John climbed from behind the drive wheel to stand alongside Sherlock unable to step completely free of its wretched history.

"I'm sure you know the reputation of this place, John...the one-time Brumehelm Asylum?"

John's affirmative nod could not halt the consequence of Sherlock's hours of researches. Not only a sudden expert on the subject, the genius had in John his preferred audience. It was a cross John would have to bear.

"Despite the high death toll of its inmates," Sherlock imparted, "it was decades before twentieth-century health authorities discovered the inhumane conditions. Its reputation for cruel and unusual punishment has not quite faded from local lore... But under the auspices of the Department of Health, it reopened in the 1980s with the new name of Fenshire District Hospital and has seen significant redemption. Its impeccable health-care practices are renowned now. It draws patients from the surrounding communities of Cambridgeshire, Lincolnshire, Peterborough, and King's Lynn districts. Most recently, it has garnered international prominence for treating patients with dementia."

"Yes, yes. I'm aware of all this. And it may be a good thing for us, Sherlock, that your Harmen G. Cain hasn't been properly identified or he wouldn't be  _languishing_ —the word you used earlie _r_ —here in hospital for long. He'd either be sent home or to another facility. It's a more typical practice these days to allow the very old or infirmed to die in a place they prefer, at home usually. And if home's not possible, then they're sent to a long-term care facility equipped for palliative and end-stage care in a comfortable homelike setting. As this patient of yours is a John Doe, he's homeless and so where to send him is more complicated."

"Just as well. After you're dead, does it  _really_  matter whether you've died in your preferred location?"

Those words had not fallen from Sherlock's lips before he realized how ill-considered they were. He grimaced. The image of Mary dying in John's arms—sharks swirling in the glass aquarium tanks behind them, no privacy and even less time for any meaningful exchanges before she bled out—was impossible to forget. While Mary had chosen to react against imminent danger as she had been trained to do, Sherlock was certain in his heart she had  _not_  chosen that moment to be the  _where_  and  _when_ of her death; certainly she had not  _preferred_  to die in that manner. Knowing it made the memory of her sacrifice more painful.

Stung, John turned from Sherlock's offending remark and feigned sudden interest in the autumn-tinged shrubbery.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, "I, I, I…. _mis_ spoke—" he stumbled, uncertain how to proceed, knowing his careless words had hurt John. Realizing he must say  _some_ thing, Sherlock inhaled, speaking in John's direction although John continued to stare elsewhere. "…a poor reflex from my past," his words were slow and careful this time. "I _know_  the converse is true….Of course it matters..." His voice trailed.

John's forehead furrowed, his eyes narrowed as though he needed to spot a tiny insect on the innermost leaf of the one  _Euonymous_  that snagged his relentless stare. But he had been listening hard to the subtext and heard what he needed. Rolling his shoulders, he tilted his head and let out a soft breath, "Hmmm."

"My apologies," the quiet answer came with earnest sorrow. "I am  _sorry,_ John."

John grunted and rocked on the balls of his feet, still peering away from the friend beside him. Recognizing the sincerity within the simple apology, John  _heard_  the change in Sherlock Holmes. The one-time "obnoxious arsehole" who had been "uncomprehending in the face of the happy;" the "analytical machine" who had claimed that sentiment interfered with ratiocination had made surprising inroads into empathy, insights of which no one had thought him capable. When it came to  _understanding_  human behavior, Sherlock's oft-repeated and long-held belief that the deductive reasoner must remain emotionally detached to be effective and unbiased in judgement still held, but  _being_ human, was altogether different. Although he had hid it well, Sherlock had always felt compassion. John had learnt this when the events surrounding "Redbeard" and the truth about Victor had come to light. Sherlock's emotional growth was evident, however, in that he was expressing it  _appropriately_ without perceiving it to have a diminishing impact on his intellectual brilliance.

John drew in a cleansing breath, "Apology accepted."

The silent friends let the moment settle. Tensions between them were less frequent in the past year since Mary's death, yet when they arose, so did a renewed awareness of the still-healing scars.

"What I had  _meant_ for you to understand," John  _ahemed_  and resumed in a steadier voice, "is that there has to be an underlying medical condition to detain any patient here rather than allow him to spend his final days in a less clinical setting."

"Your point's well taken," Sherlock cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. "Preferred location or not, let's find some answers, shall we?" he finished and started for the entrance.

'Yeah, answers…like are we visiting the  _right_  man," John muttered, lagging behind to think over the details Sherlock had shared as they motored up from London.

**888**

Once they had merged onto the M11, Sherlock explained the challenges he had encountered the previous night in his search for Harmen G. Cain. Finding no obituary made pinpointing the man's location difficult. The detective had persevered, painstakingly triangulating the closest parish constabulary and hospital facilities, medical establishments, and home-hospice programs with the site identified in Mrs. Cain's letter as Mearcstapa. It was a remote fenland area well north of Thornham near the Holme Dunes National Reserve, but it gave Sherlock a central locus from which to work outward.

Ringing up each medical service for general patient information until the wee hours of the morning, Sherlock was told the same answer: no one named Harmen G. Cain had been admitted, of Thornham,  _Mearcstapa_  or otherwise; however, one facility—Fenshire District Hospital—had posted a bulletin asking the public's help in identifying an unconscious man brought in several days earlier from Thornham.

"Huh! Unidentified…hmmm," John's thoughts had been drifting along with the light Sunday morning traffic. He was calculating the mileage to their first destination— the hospital—when Sherlock's news pulled him back. "Coincidence?"

"' _The universe is rarely so lazy,'_ " Sherlock chortled, "I agree with Mycroft. The balance of probability is strong that their unconscious, unidentified patient is our man. Odd, though," Sherlock was talking more to himself than to John, "they're seeking the public's help, yet, they've not posted any photos..."his voice receded the deeper he retreated in thought.

"Each organization has their own protocols to procure information for unidentified patients," John shrugged, keeping his eyes focused on the unfamiliar road, "perhaps there was something about the patient's condition that prohibited photo release. Or perhaps they had hoped someone would realize the patient was a missing person and come forward first..."

"Still, to cross reference the data, I rang the Norfolk Constabulary —."

John nearly veered out of his lane in surprise. "You _called_  the police?"

"I  _do_  call the police, John," the detective reminded his partner, "when they are not likely to be a hindrance, which in this particular case, they are not. It seems our blogged exploits are popular with the parish constables and Mrs. Cain's name hit a nerve with one of their local detective units. Speaking with a desk sergeant, I learnt that Thornham, a small coastal village with less than 300 households, has had no reported crimes for months on end— _boring!_  However, it recently logged a medical incident. Paramedics took an unidentified unconscious man they found on a roadway two kilometers south of Holme Dunes National Reserve to FDH hospital several days ago. The helpful sergeant also promised he'd pass on my inquiries about the identity of this patient to a DI named Bane, currently assigned to Hunstanton. He said Bane would be 'keenly interested,'" Sherlock added air quotes, "especially if the unidentified man were Harmen Cain. Which he  _is_ …" Sherlock asserted once more before withdrawing into his thoughts where he remained—except when he occasionally popped out to thumb a search on his mobile. John knew better than to intrude on Sherlock's contemplation—the chess master was plotting all his moves—even though that silence lasted for nearly two hours.

**888**

"He  _is_ our man, John," Sherlock insisted with the same imperturbable confidence he expressed earlier, but he noticeably hesitated once John had caught him up at the front entrance. "One caveat: for the moment, our presence here is premature. Until the police supply the releases for confidential data, we don't yet have official clearance from the hospital."

"No need to remind me," John shrugged, mentally rehearsing the entire litany of patient-privacy policies. "And what if your new mate decides not to show?"

"He will, John," Sherlock ignored his friend's pessimism. "Made good use of time driving up," he gestured with his mobile, "to inspect the inspector. DI Bane has been profiling Cain for years. He's invested in this. Apparently there had been a history of allegations—none about the wife—but serious ones against Harmen Cain. There just wasn't enough concrete evidence to back up those suspicions, so Cain evaded arrest multiple times." The ping of his phone drew Sherlock's attention; the text produced his satisfied smile. "The DI has agreed to meet us here—."

"And you think you can work with this DI, yes?" John looked askance.

Sherlock frowned at John's skepticism. "We'll see. He's crucial at this juncture of our investigation." The detective's serious expression swiftly softened, "But you, John, will steer our collaboration into calm waters. Just one of the various reasons you are indispensable," he beamed, cheered by his ready solution to the potential problem.

John stifled a chuckle at the flattery. Sherlock tended to lay it on thick—perhaps unaware of how pretentious or condescending he often sounded— when he wanted John's assistance; and even though John recognized the excessive praise for what it was, he had learnt over time there was sincerity at its heart.

Sherlock's voice rose with anticipation and delight. "Now, I expect with Bane's case history and the wife's letter to prove our mission is genuine, we'll secure the necessary cooperation and more doors will open." Emphasizing his point, Sherlock held the door open for John, gave his friend a crooked grin of "game afoot," and followed John through.

888***888


	4. The Method

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

888***888

The male guard at Fenshire District Hospital reception stopped them immediately, but the apparentlegitimacy of their visit—Sherlock had no need to flash a purloined warrant card—procured them a stop at the office of Cynthia Willows, Director of Patient Admissions.

"We have urgent business with one of your patients at the request of his late wife," Sherlock addressed the middle-aged redhead—dyed an unnatural color tone—as she shut the office door and returned to her chair. The detective wasted no time after exchanging introductions to get to the matter. "Earlier this morning, I rang and spoke with Assistant Coordinator Edmund Davis to inform him of our concerns. This preliminary investigation on a pending police matter required our trip from London to make inquiries."

"I see," Director Willows nodded with practiced politeness. Her professional attire, a hunter green suit jacket faded at the elbows and a black synthetic 'silk' blouse accented by a string of faux-pearls, suggested a frugal lifestyle on a modest budget. "What's the name of the patient?"

"He's currently unidentified, but we have reason to believe he is Harmen G. Cain. With our information we expect to identity him or help him remember even if he is not fully coherent to identify himself," Sherlock stated, more cordial than cocky, but the director remained wary.

"Not possible," She flung a dismissive hand and crossed her arms over her chest. "Whatever business you might have, I fear this patient is in no condition for visitors, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." Her no-nonsense body language clearly meant end of discussion.

"What, may I ask,  _is_  his condition?" John asked, unperturbed by her defensiveness.

"Other than grave," Director Willows cut her eyes at John and replied curtly, "I'm not at liberty to say—" Her desk phone rang. Frowning, she pushed back in her swivel chair and sighed, "Sorry." Her focus turned inward as she lifted the handset, "yes?"

Sherlock's sharp ears picked up the gruff voice of the reception-desk guard and distinctly heard his message.

"Send him in," Willows replied and grunted as she replaced the phone. "Detective Inspector Gareth Bane from the Norfolk Constabulary is here. He says he also has business regarding this Cain person…well the patient you are claiming is Cain."

"Quite right! I was expecting him. Cain's condition may be the result of attempted murder," Sherlock's pleased tone was charged with authority. "I suggest your assistance at this time will ensure that Fenshire District Hospital will be found blameless in his death."

Director Willows eyes widened and she hesitated. "Attempted murder, you say? This is disturbing—" To the rap on the door, she responded, "Come in, Detective Inspector."

Detective Inspector Gareth Bane burst through the door, flushed and winded. His overcoat, donned in apparent haste, hung open and twisted over his large frame and carried the distinct aroma of cigarettes. "Got 'ere as soon as I cu'd," he announced in a gravelly voice that carried the cadence of a Manchester upbringing with a hint of East Anglia. Standing tall at more than 1.8 metres, his husky build had shifted from firm muscle to portly mass and his bald head sported feathery wisps of grey strands. Bland skin tones rendered his grey moustache nearly invisible. In mien he was a seasoned veteran of the law enforcement unit, yet he had the eagerness of a younger officer and his eyes gleamed like a man with purpose.

Bane's glance skittered toward Sherlock and John before he addressed the hospital authority with formal courtesy, "Director Willows, I'm 'ere to identify the patient. "If it's who they think it is," he tilted his head toward the two men, "I've also got legal warrants and documentation," he waved a thick envelop in a beefy fist, "so Cain doesn't evade custody."

"Custody? I thought he was a victim?" She shook away her confusion and without waiting for an answer, briefly pressed her intercom: "Paging Dr. Sam Spencer. Please come to Patient Admissions." Clasping her hands atop the desk, she leant forward on her elbows. "Now, this patient is not going anywhere, even if he is a criminal. I will have Dr. Spencer explain. In the meantime, Detective Inspector, let me check over your confidentiality disclosures forms for release of information and your warrants..."

Bane approached the desk, carefully identifying each document he handed the director.

"Some of these arrest warrants are decades old!" Willows remarked with incredulity.

"There's no statute of limitations for murder, Director…" the DI countered.

"Isn't it alleged ..." she queried him, "until found guilty in a court of law?"

John shot furtive glances toward Sherlock, not fooled by his silent friend's calm façade. The director still had every right to deny them information; it all hinged on the DI's paperwork. Sherlock was betraying overt signs of his edginess—the twitch in his cheeks were nearly imperceptible, although John knew what he was seeing. Tight-lipped, Sherlock showed enormous restraint in the presence of all the "ordinary little brains" in the room.

"'E was evasive of the law on many counts and for many crimes…but circumstantial evidence surroundin' missin' persons made 'im the prime suspect…"

"Sorry?" The director pushed back, her lips a perfect pout.

"We were unable to apprehend 'im… or arraign 'im for his crimes." Looking down, Bane noticed his skewed coat and straightened it to make himself more presentable.

"And why is that?" Willows implied with disapproval in her tone.

"'Ave you neva' read the papers, Miss?" A shadow of frustration, perhaps something more, crossed the DI's face. " _Wild Man_ _Stalks the Fens"_ —it's no ghost story. It's common knowledge in these whereabouts, goin' back about forty years!"

Comparing the flat boggy sound of the DI's undertones with the lingering hint of West Midlands in Willow's pronunciation, Sherlock suspected she had been far removed from the stories that circulated the Fens nearly half a century ago.

"This Cain bloke," Bane did his best to temper the sizzle in his voice, though his accent and his disregard for mild profanity grew stronger as he recalled the events, "was, was…a shrewd devil…yes… a throwback… a Neanderthal, rumor 'as it. Whatever 'e was, when we considered 'im a primary suspect, 'e 'id in the wetlands where 'e grew up. Bloody 'ell, 'e knew the waterways better than anyone alive. The bastard could disappear for years and evade any of our efforts to pursue 'im. Some units that went in after neva' came back—" Bane coughed to cover the quaver in his voice. He cleared his throat and swallowed. "The loss of our men…our brothers…might be explained by the treacherous marshland, but in our gut we knew…the goddamn monster attacked 'em. Picked 'em off one by one! Somewhere in the murky depths of that 'ell 'ole, of that bloody stinkin' swamp, are graves of brave men—."

"And you think our patient is this…this fugitive?" Willows displayed a mix of dismay about what she had heard and sympathy for Bane. She shook her head and returned to reading through the DI's documentation. "You have the proper warrants, I grant you that, but the man you claim is a criminal and the patient who is near death in this hospital may not be the same person. As it is, the patient lacks the mental capacity to either give or withhold his consent and there is no next of kin…."

"No next of kin because he's unidentified," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth; only John could hear him, and barely at that.

"Regardless of kin or the patient's consent," Bane countered with conviction, "this investigation comes under the  _Public Interest Disclosures Code_ , allowing for the release of patient information essentially to prevent or _detect_ —in this case—a serious crime," The DI stifled a cough and continued. "Consent is not required; in fact, the 'ealth professional is mandated by law to disclose medical information."

Sherlock leant over to whisper in John's ear. "Good, this DI is prepared." The words were so faint, John was not sure he heard them correctly, but more surprising was the possibility that Sherlock approved.

"I can confirm 'is identity," Bane pushed. "Let me tell you whether 'e's 'Armen G. Cain."

"How?" The Director exhaled a dubious scoff. "You've just said that he spent his life in hiding, yes?"

"Before that, before 'is crimes came to light, before I joined up as a constable, I had…some dealings with 'im. 'E was no stranger in our small parish."

"So, even after all this time, you think you can recognize this man?" Willows chewed her lower lip, her mouth zigzagged with misgivings.

"Recognize 'im? The man's looks are… unusual," Bane snapped, a scowl knitting his brow as he muttered, "'E's unforgettable!"

When she said nothing more the director appeared to be slowly coming round.

...A bit too slowly for Sherlock. "The FDH has asked for the public's help in identifying this patient, Director Willows," Sherlock urged with his overly enthusiastic voice of reason. "Here is someone who can help. This good detective claims he can give you an official ID." While his act to conceal his growing irritation with the director's infuriating resistance may have fooled Willows and the DI, the fire in his bright eyes and the rumbling baritone meant Sherlock was near erupting, "Is there anyone more trustworthy and reliable than a member of the Norfolk Constabulary?"

John covered his amused grin with a subtle gesture—scratching his upper lip. Sherlock's words "trustworthy and reliable" were typically reserved for his favorite bloodhound, Toby; he must have been at his wits end to grant such a generous endorsement without concrete proof.

"Still, I'm averse to disturbing a man in his last hours when there is a possibility it could be mistaken identity." Her reply was more maddening because it was half-hearted.

Sherlock barely stifled a groan of despair when the office door opened once again, revealing a slight-built, young woman in a white labcoat. Her FDH badge—Dr. Samantha Spencer in block letter—included the photo of a smiling face. Yet it bore little resemblance to the woman who walked into the room. Her face appeared drawn with worry.

"Oh, Dr. Spencer," Willows' greeting betrayed her relief. "Thank you. Your assistance is needed in a certain matter."

It did not take long for the physician to be updated and her look of disquiet to vanish. "Finding anyone who can identify and perhaps explain this patient's history—the incongruities we've encountered are troubling—would be most welcomed." The promise of answers raised a congenial smile to match her ID. "Gentlemen, you could not have come at a more opportune time."

888888

Dr. Spencer, nodding in greeting to the sisters and aides she passed, led John, Sherlock, and Gareth Bane through the corridor. She was more forthcoming than Willows, more impacted by the perplexity of her medical case. "The patient's prognosis is definitely bleak. He remains unconscious and although quite old, his age is indeterminate. One estimate is that he may exceed one hundred. Since he was brought in unconscious to the resus room for assessment a few days ago, we ran the standard tests—including x-rays for obvious broken bones—to determine what we were dealing with, but after all those tests it was apparent that administering palliative care is our only option."

While the doctors engaged in conversation and walked a step ahead, Sherlock paired off with the Norfolk detective inspector explicitly to derive intel about Gareth Bane. Observations from the man's physical bearing were instant:

— _Keeping up our_   _brisk pace despite arthritic knees_  causing  _his limp,_

—C _hain smoker, obvious by the scent of stale cigarettes, the phlegmy coughs and stained fingers,_

— _Baggy, loose skin under his eyes tattles of too much drink_ ,

— _R_ _ight tilt of head obviously compensating for some hearing loss in his left._

"Without knowing who the patient is," Spencer spoke in hushed tones, accustomed to being discreet, "we cannot access NHS records for a healthcare history or procedures that may have been performed, but from the looks of him, I doubt he has ever sought professional medical help."

"It's the diagnosis that interests us," John replied. "We want to determine whether the disturbing information my friend received," he twisted around toward the men behind them and gave a head nod: all eyes briefly alighted on Sherlock, "has any bearing on his condition."

Sherlock waited the few seconds until their gazes flitted away to continue his assessments of the Detective Inspector. Deductions about the man's motives required a bit more concentration.

— _Bitterness in the lines around his mouth; set_   _of his brow perpetually furrowed; like old seafarers who stare into the horizon, the DI has weathered the worst of humankind,_

—S _moking and drinking to excess suggests a man who cares little about his own longevity,_

— _Well past his prime, should have retired years ago if not for some unfinished business urging him to stay, keeping him involved in investigative work,_

_—_ _With no wife at home—no indentations in his ring finger—and likely no one for a long time, he's a man_ _married_ _to his job._

Bane had been straining to catch every word about the ailing patient. Distracted so, he had dropped his gruff and gritty professional mask, exposing a haggard and haunted expression.

_—_   _Oh! There are demons beneath…._ Sherlock recognized _that_  look. He had seen it in numerous clients. Often, he had caught a glimpse of it in his own reflection. _This is deeply personal! An old wound. He's confronting his nemesis in Harmen G. Cain!_

"You wonder if it might be attempted murder…premeditated?" Spencer frowned at John. Making an abrupt turn, the physician gestured them to follow. "Let's speak in this office." Spencer waved her guests to the seats across from her desk while she logged on to the computer terminal for file access. Only Sherlock insisted on standing.

"The surname Cain is not uncommon in our file databanks, I see. Nope, he was never admitted here previously under that name. However, he is our only current John Doe. Let me see the latest—" her voice trailed. "Okay. Here we are! You've asked what his condition _is_? Perhaps it is better to ask what his condition _ISN'T_? Blood work and diagnostics indicate a lengthy history of chronic afflictions from foodborne illnesses, parasites, arteriosclerosis, gout, toxicity—from among other things—excessive licorice intake, believe it or not?... Apparently, tainted foods have been his regular diet."

"D'ya think he ingested these things deliberately?" John's brows shot up, but his eyes darted toward Sherlock for confirmation, except, Sherlock's gaze was introspective, processing the physician's information and sorting possibilities from probabilities.

"That's a good question. Certainly, he had a strange diet…," Spencer nodded, then shook her head. "No. Let me correct that—a terrible one! There's more. While there are critically high levels of lead in his blood, he also has hypertension, wet-form macular degeneration, neuropathy in the extremities…" the doctor trailed off, bewildered. "Yet if I understand you, Detective Inspector, he has managed to live an isolated existence and to fend for himself in the Fen marshes...and not without some hardships... well, at least until now."

"'Ardships?" Bane's somber voice brightened. "What do you mean?"

"Oddly there are numerous old scars on his chest, arms, legs, ankles, and back—lacerations of various kinds. There is also evidence that he had suffered several broken bones left to heal on their own without professional medical intervention, which accounts for the deformities in his fingers, toes, his right foot, his left ankle, and a partially severed outer ear."

"Aah! Apparently 'idin' in that 'ell 'ole was no 'aven for 'im," Bane muttered to no one in particular, but he sounded buoyed by the revelation. "That un'oly monster got as good as 'e gave, then?"

John knew that if  _he_  noticed Bane's elevated tone, Sherlock should not have missed it. Expecting his friend to pounce on the DI with ferocity to extract the truth quickly—Sherlock's verbal version of pulling a tooth—John instead witnessed something completely different.

Sherlock spoke courtesiously, devoid of impertinence or impatience, "This is not altogether a surprise, then. Do you wish to elaborate, DI?"

Surprise arched John's brows. Sherlock surely gleaned more from the DI's remark, but chose tact over attack.

"I might," Bane met Sherlock's scrutiny before looking away, "but for now I'll keep my peace. I need to work some of this out myself. Go on, Doc. What about broken bones?"

"Well," Spencer continued, "some of the fractures to his ribcage appeared to have been injuries from his prepubescent youth."

"From a violent upbringing, perhaps?" John suggested, partially distracted by Sherlock's more restless pacing.

The subtle twitch on Bane's face, triggered by John's remark, did not escape Sherlock who kept adjusting his vantage point to study the DI's reactions.

"Hard to say. Likely...although at this point, none of these old injuries are causing his demise," Spencer scrolled further down the screen before continuing. "With no way to identify this man, we were preparing a public appeal with partner agencies ...At intake two days ago, we shared what we knew about this John Doe with our parish constabulary. They took the information and gave us a case number. Here, Detective Inspector," Spencer paused and recited the reference for Bane to jot down "We expected they'd be in touch once they learned something ..."

"Not much of a bleeding priority they gave it. Your constabulary should 'ave got a photo and circulated a bulletin to the Norfolk Constabulary," Bane criticized and pushed back in his chair, annoyed. "Instead, it took Sherlock  _bloody_  'Olmes to inform me!"

Sherlock kept his face impassive, although John could tell by the flicker in his eyes he was pleased by this confirmation of his efficacy.

"I can't explain the oversight of our local police," Spencer threw Bane a stern look, "but as for the photo… On balance, the patient is …a bit…unsightly.. Well, to be honest, I'd say he's awfully grotesque for the public to see like this…"

"How long does the patient have…?" John redirected the discussion, asking the question that he knew was foremost on Sherlock's mind. Sherlock was showing self-control thus far, but John was hoping to circumvent the inevitable tantrums about wasting precious time.

"Not long…except…" Spencer shrugged and turned off her computer, "yeah, it's hard to explain…We thought he had mere hours several days ago! I've read medical accounts, but this, this man is my first experience. It seems this patient is unwilling to die…fighting tooth and nail…" the edges of her lips turned downward; gathering herself, she drew in a deep breath. "Well as I've said, he's unconscious. He has cirrhosis of the liver, kidney stones, severe bladder infection, and prostate enlargement most likely from cancer, congestive heart failure, along with uncontrolled diabetes all causing Multiple —."

"—Organ Failure, MOF," John clarified with a head nod, "after a remarkably long-life despite unhealthy nutrition and terrible accidents."

"Yes. Only now is he succumbing to what would have killed an 'ordinary' man much sooner...," Spencer looked at the men in turn and shook her head. "In both my professional experience and in my personal opinion, this is unprecedented. There might be some genetic abnormalities present to explain it, but I am not a geneticist… I'll take you to see him now. Perhaps you'll understand it better." She rose to her feet and as an afterthought remarked. "I can think of no way to describe his constitution rather than with a quote I remember from a mystery series I read when I was a girl …  _'This fellow is a perfect savage, as strong as a cart-horse and as fierce as the devil.'_ "

An impatient Sherlock bypassed the irrelevant literary reference to focus on the facts. "Aside from the fractures, the lacerations, and home remedies to patch up his wounds, you are saying that this man has additionally gorged on an inordinate diet of rich or under-cooked foods and consumed toxins that are linked to a host of diseases?" Sherlock met John's eyes, his own bright with excitement. "We know method now. This has been what's killing him… next, we must prove it was premeditated."

"You say his wife is owning to it?" Spencer headed to the door. "You think it's true?"

"The deceased wife," Sherlock corrected. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe the wife's claim holds some truth."

"The truth! That's what we're 'ere for, at long last," Bane grimaced and clutched his knee when he rose from his chair; swearing softly, he eased himself into a standing position, favoring one leg.

"Deceased, you say? Now I really don't understand," Spencer grew thoughtful, resigned, "Much of this is decidedly difficult to believe. I've heard of being starved to death," she laughed dryly and paused with her hand on the doorknob, "but not this. His wife deliberately overfed him…to kill him?"

"That's one possible explanation of some of the facts," Sherlock shared a smirk with Spencer and Bane; John saw in it a knowing smile. "I now suspect the wily woman also used an arsenal of tricks and traps to inflict pain."

Aghast, Spencer's jaw dropped slightly, while Bane's lips curled into a devilish grin and cheered, " _That's_  my lass!"

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A. N. *The mystery story quote is from "The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge", part II: The Tiger of San Pedro.

Dear Readers, Thank you for sticking with this story. There's much more to come. Don't forget, your reviews encourage the writing process, so please feel free to make a comment. :-)


	5. The Madness

 

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"Keeping your peace," Sherlock's smug smile grew wider at Bane's disclosure, "How's that working out for you?"

"I've been plain as day, Mr. 'Olmes, 'bout near everythin'," Bane replied, giving Sherlock a skewered look. "You've 'eard what I told the Director. I've laid out the 'istory of Cain's alleged crimes." The challenging tilt to Bane's chin and the flare of fury in his eyes showed that he held no regrets for his outburst and sorely disliked the implications in Sherlock's tone, "That's the extent of my involvement—"

"—Yet, you've been holding back," Sherlock accused, "about a personal connection."

Bane bristled, irritated that his veracity had come under question, especially by an outsider, and scowled. "What more do y'need? "Specially as this 'as been my case for years. Don't need the likes of you to take over when we're closin' in."

Dr. Spencer and John hadn't moved since Bane's declaration, their eyes darted from speaker to speaker.

Sherlock ignored Bane's petty assertion of ownership over the facts. It was not a competition and professional jealousy was detrimental in ascertaining the truth."—You knew the wife!"

"Barely," Bane snapped, but he was unnerved by Sherlock's keen observation. His eyes cooled and his gaze fell to the floor. "Long time ago. Ancient 'istory. Y'see. Nothin' to 'old back."

"A childhood friend of some importance, however," Sherlock commented with narrowed, discerning eyes.

John understood why Sherlock would find this significant, especially since learning about Victor Trevor.

"Yeah, I grew up with Bebe in the same coastal village—Burnham. We played as kids…a feisty lass she was. Crafty, tough, a troublemaker, and—God love 'er— very 'eadstrong as all 'ell. Too clever for 'er own good, at times, but the girl I knew was at 'eart a good lass. True, she 'ad family issues. Utterly frightenin' 'ow vengeful she was, 'specially if she felt someone 'ad done 'er wrong." Bane shook his head. "What? We were mates as children. Anyway, we went our separate ways when I was eleven…my family moved to Manchester, and later, I 'eard, she'd gone off with 'im—when she was sixteen!" Banes eyes swept passed Sherlock to a point beyond.

"This is madness! Sixteen?" Spencer shook her head. "I don't understand!"

"Technically, in the  _Ages of Marriage Act_ , approved in 1929," Sherlock quoted the facts to assist the doctor's understanding, "Parliament raised the age limit to sixteen for both sexes. This is still the minimum age, although it requires parental consent."

"Yes!" Spencer showed genuine dismay, "and wasn't Cain a middle-aged man…from what you've told us, Detective Inspector, we're discussing the late nineteen sixties, yes? Where were her parents? Wasn't there anyone about to stop such a rash decision?"

"I told you. Bebe was difficult and 'ad family troubles. Don't know what actually 'appened, but the village gossips had a field day," Bane sounded as though he was speaking from far away, "No matter," he snapped his eyes back into focus. "Water under the bridge, at least for me, 'til things—subtle things at first, some odd—started 'appenin'. It took us years, but eventually we suspected 'er maniac 'usband was be'ind it."

"What things?" Sherlock's patience for sifting the important details from the oblique was wearing thin.

"Farmers' complaints for starters; cattle they would graze on the salt march went missin'. This was an occasional nuisance; animals drownin', but forty years ago, it began happenin' with more frequency. And unlike before, the 'alf-eaten carcasses were found nearby. Years later, warehouse supplies disappeared from farmers' barns, storage units in the village raided, even books taken from people's 'omes," Bane's voice rose with excitement.

"How long did this go on?"

"Um. It stopped about seventeen years ago," Bane replied distractedly to Sherlock's interruption, but he was quick to recover his train of thought. "Thirty years ago—it was the late eighties—'missin' persons' reports began pickin' up. Not among the local villagers; rather, these were strangers. Y'know, the campers, the touristy sort? 'Ere for the charm, 'ikin' alone and passin' through? These cases got us worried. The number of incidents was becomin' statistically 'igh for this parish."

"And this problem continues, even now?"

"No." Bane threw Sherlock an irritated look, "This, too, stopped about seventeen years ago, but cold cases all of 'em still. Never a one found."

"My aunts remembered reading about those missing hikers in the news," Spencer commented. "Lost in the marshes. They were accidents, yes? That's why more signs were posted to warn hikers to stay on the trails…?"

"What made you suspect Cain?" Sherlock ignored the doctor.

"We didn't at first. It was unthinkable. There were no solid explanations for the missin' persons, they seemed quite random, and we suspected the Fen Tiger for the animal maulin'."

"Come again?" John thought he had misheard. "A  _tiger_?"

"The Fen Tiger. Not a real tiger; it's a large cat—panther sized—that 'as roamed 'ere for years. First sighted in Cottenham,1968; the last sightin' was caught on a smartphone or about two years ago. In between, there 'ave been other sightin's. Twenty years ago, a local farmer filmed the animal for several minutes. '…almost certainly a large cat-like animal,' this accordin' to the British Big Cat Society. A year later two police traffic officers claimed they saw a large black feline in Westwick, a few miles from where the farmer's video was filmed. But no videos picked up the big cats eating livestock," Bane's gloomy grin exposed nicotine-yellowed teeth.

"And cats don't burgle for books and supplies," John deadpanned the obvious.

"Yeah," Bane gave John an approving nod. "The constant raids on warehouses and barns throughout the Fens and the items taken—sugar, flour, licorice, canned milk, butter—fit the profile of someone who planned to live outside of society—a 'Prepper,' we call it now, a 'UK Survivalist.' Collectively it was a stockpile of assorted goods survivalists might take to live in the wilds for years. That profile  _was_  Cain and so 'e was our top suspect. It didn't help that 'is whole  _bloody_ family had lived in the wild fen marshes, those north of the Holme Nature Reserve that 'ad never been drained—Mearcstapa they called it. It was 'eld by generations of Cains. Some say they'd been 'ere before the Romans, but whenever they got 'ere, they lived like the original Marsh Men who preferred wildfowlin' and fishin' to farmin'. Can't cite them for their preferences, 'xcept they 'ad a reputation for being a bit… strange…"

"Sounds like a long-harbored bias against a recalcitrant folk," Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms, drumming his fingers against an elbow, "if not completely circumstantial."

"You're right—that was the problem. It was biased theories based upon circumstantial evidence and total  _gut_  instinct, admittedly not very good detective work—which is what made it so 'ard to go after 'im. You 'ave to understand the Fen culture of sustainable farmin' and environmental stewardship is about everyone workin' together, but not Cain. Something different about 'im. More obvious the older 'e got. An arrogant son of a bitch, insufferable, broodin'— "

"Arrogant son of a bitch, insufferable, brooding …still not proof the man is capable of any wrongdoing…" Sherlock remarked, his expression inscrutable, although John heard a subtle, rueful undertone.

"But then…, Bane inspected the back of his hands, the rough skin mottled with liver spots, "…but then, 'e slipped up!" he looked up and met Sherlock's scrutiny with a triumphant half grin and gleaming eyes.

"How? Dammit!" Bane's dramatic pause provoked John's demanding curiosity.

For the first time Bane cracked a genuine smile. "Twenty years ago, a farmer out of Wisbech set up surveillance equipment. 'E was fed up with losin' farm animals. What 'e caught on video was not a cat, but a man, a very big man—'Armen Cain—rippin' into a lamb with his teeth. Why? We couldn't fathom it. It just confirmed the man belonged in the looney bin! And what 'e was doin' all the way over there 'ad us scratching our 'eads—"

"—used the waterways," Sherlock answered Bane's rhetorical question.

"Yup! Likely got around sneakin' through hidden creeks and inlets—but at last we got 'im for somethin'! Mutilation of livestock. Officers went into the wetlands of outer Mearcstapa to retrieve 'im for questionin'. Though they found the swamps difficult to penetrate, like a natural fortress, finally they found a ramshackle home with small 'erb gardens nearby, and some chickens, rabbits, a few scrawny cats…snakes…all in cages."

"Oh!" Spencer brought her hand to her mouth in disgust. "Do you think these animals were...food?"

"The officers didn't ask. They were more focused on  _who_  they found inside. It was…the wife… boilin' vats of water for cannin' or stewin' they supposed. Place had an awful stench. The constables startled 'er, questioned 'er. She knew nothin' about 'er 'usband's raids. When they left empty'anded, they staked out the area of the nature reserve, but 'e neva turned up."

"More like he sneaked right past them," Sherlock corrected, "along those secret waterways."

"Yeah. They realized that much. Still, they waited…and as they waited…more raids in barns, more mutilations of livestock with Cain very much the person of interest. On the next visit to outer Mearcstapa, there was no sign of anyone now. The constables were certain 'e took the wife elsewhere...deeper." Bane shrugged. "With a list of suspicions, we finally got the courts behind us. The task force went in with warrants to apprehend 'im. And you 'eard me tell the Director what 'appened to 'em."

"So you never made direct or personal contact with the wife, your childhood friend Bebe?"

Bane's face went limp, the light in his eyes clouded, "No. It wasn't my jurisdiction when this all was going down. At that time, I worked ERSOU—,"

"—Eastern Region Special Operations Unit," Sherlock clarified for the others' benefit.

"Yeah, dealin' with drug traffickin'. Did that for over twenty-five years in another district," Bane continued. "Much later when I transferred to this parish I joined the investigative team on the case. True, I did have a personal stake in it, Mr. 'Olmes. I was afraid for 'er. What 'e might do or might 'ave done to 'er. Did I think she was complicit in killin' campers and 'ikers…?" Bane rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Not _my_  Bebe. But the monster she married could 'ave changed 'er."

Shaking his head, the DI coughed and cleared his throat. "Since then, I've been followin' tips concernin' their whereabouts. Breadcrumbs, mostly, gobbled up before they could take us very far. They 'ave been 'off the grid' ever since. No sign of them anywhere—"

"For seventeen years..." Intrigued, Sherlock mused with his fingers tented under his chin.

"Yeah. That's right. All of it stopped seventeen years ago!" Bane conceded, showing fatigue after his long-winded narrative. "We don't know why. We 'oped this meant Cain 'ad died, but we couldn't be sure. I 'alf 'oped she 'ad died, too, rather than be a part of 'is filthy life." He drew in a wheezy breath to steady his voice, and turned toward Sherlock. "So, when the desk sergeant told me you called—the 'famous detective!' 'e sounded like an outpatient from the Ole Brume he was so excited—on suspicions Cain might be in 'ospital, I wasn't gonna let this slip through my fingers." Bane eyed Sherlock warily. "But the sergeant didn't know what evidence brought you 'ere. Talk about someone 'oldin' back."

"Fair enough," Sherlock chortled. "Yesterday, I received a letter, a handwritten letter more precisely, from B. Winifred Cain. In it she accuses Cain of monstrous deeds—no specifics what those deeds were—and confesses to premeditated attempted murder, no explanation how."

Bane was jolted, confused. His face blanched a pasty white. "Beatrice Winifred! Bebe! She wrote… a letter? She's alive?"

"In the letter, she claims she's not—it is intriguing," Sherlock pulled the letter from his inside breast pocket showing it to Bane. "It was posted two days ago, but I suspect it wasn't composed recently. It must have been in someone's safe keeping until now."

Sentiment sped to Bane's eyes; they became watery with relief as he read her note. "I was afraid Bebe was caught up in this some'ow I didn't want to believe it but she 'ad a dark side. It made me wonder if she 'adn't become a demon 'erself. I'm, I'm— " Bane handed the letter back to Sherlock and dropped his head to his chest. "When did she die?"

"Don't know when or where."

"Wait!" Dr. Spencer spoke up. "Earlier I told you there were other patients with the surname Cain, but Harmen G. Cain had no records on file. I think I saw a Beatrice Cain listed as a former patient here." She went back to the computer, logged on quickly and pulled up the file. "Beatrice W. Cain. Three years ago. Died. Complications from liver cancer." Spencer scrolled further through the records. "The doctor who signed off…is …on shift now, Dr. Dana Rath... shall I send for...?" When she looked up at the three men, Spencer saw the answer to her unfinished question.

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	6. The DI's Tale

 

 

 

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"Jane, these gentlemen are here to identify the patient," Dr. Spencer addressed the uniformed nurse checking the monitors in the patient's room and logging the readings. Although the drawn curtains dimmed the room against the November morning light, the unit was alive with beeping sounds and the blinking lights of the monitoring device.

The three men crowded in the doorway could see that the occupant in the bed was attached to electrodes, IV tubes, and a nasal cannula and that the moving jagged lines on the screen were neither spiking with vitality nor showing regular rhythms. The patient was close to death and whatever "tremendous advantage" Sherlock had anticipated in finding Harmen Cain "languishing" had been lost. John recognized Sherlock's disappointment in his friend's tightened jaw.

"Take only a few minutes, gentlemen," Spencer advised. "After your visit, please wait for me in that private room over there while I locate Dr. Dana Rath," she pointed to a specific doorway off the corridor and hurried off.

"Come in, gentlemen, come in," Sister Jane beckoned cheerily. "I'm nearly done."

Edgy with impatience, Bane moved into the room and approached the bed. He stood over the inert form, concentrating so hard he seemed unaware of John beside him. Neither did he realize that across the bed, Sherlock was alternately scrutinizing him and the patient with narrowed, penetrating eyes. For as long as Bane studied the motionless features of the unidentified man, he mirrored that motionlessness; he did not breathe, his face hardened in a grim expression, his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.

At last a hissing breath escaped him. In an inquisitive whisper, he repeated the words "…tssss…em? tssss…hm? tssSS…EM!" A tide of profanities followed and after raising his eyes toward the ceiling, he declared with solid conviction in a powerful exhale, "'E's 'Armen Grendel Cain!"

The same haunted expression Sherlock had seen earlier on Bane's face had returned. Only now it was if he had seen a ghost. "You're absolutely sure?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes… yes!" Bane's puffed between shortened breaths. "I'm sure. I'll sweat to it!"

The nurse looked with alarm at Bane. "Sir?"

John too noticed Bane's drained color. The man's generally overweight smoker's constitution, complicated by age, had not braced him properly for the shock. "Detective Inspector," despite his soothing tones, John spoke with authority. "Calm yourself or I will order you for assessment in the resus room. Please sit!" John grabbed a bedside chair and shoved it toward Bane.

Bane sat and raised his palms up in submission, "Fine…fine…" he blew through tight lips.

"Breathe deeply, long calming breaths," John instructed, while securing Bane's wrist and timing the man's pulse. He met Bane's gaze, checked the man's pupils, and waited until his complexion showed returning color. Satisfied, John released the DI's wrist. "Better. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" Glancing toward Sherlock and the nurse, John caught their approving looks and shyly turned away. "Anyway," he remarked with a modest half grin, "I really came here to examine  _this_ patient."

John circled round the bed to examine the monitors and the slack, but large-jawed patient. The pale man appeared as if the warmth of life had already abandoned him. His immense form dwarfed the bed, but his bulk and height were hardly intimidating in his prone position. He had weathered, leathery cheeks, his face mostly covered by a matted long grey beard; he had a prominent aquiline nose, and a long cranium thinly tufted by snow-white hair. His pronounced supraorbital ridge supported a broad forehead furrowed with deeply-etched lines that suggested he had spent many years in a perpetually angry or agitated state. Gently John probed the patient's misshaped ankle, fingers, and toes, pulled the blanket away to check the scars on his torso, and leant over to inspect the partially missing cartilage of the one ear. He paused to re-inspect the skin behind the patient's half torn ear and finished his examination with an audible, "hmmmm."

John's thinking pose—fists akimbo on hips—guaranteed a forthcoming pronouncement and Sherlock waited expectantly; but instead John tilted his head suggesting they step outside.

"If you're up to it, Detective Inspector, join us in the hall," John said to Bane followed by a quick nod to Jane, "Excuse us, nurse," and joined Sherlock in the corridor. The DI, having regained his composure, was quick to follow.

"I have to concur with Dr. Spencer on all counts, including his odd physique, perhaps explained by some genetic anomaly," John walked them in the direction of the private room to wait for doctors Spencer and Rath. He stopped, leant against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest. "The scars and broken bones are old…some knitted exceedingly poorly…and there's a mark behind his ear—"

"—Yes!... a very old, faded tattoo," Sherlock interrupted, his eyes locked on John's.

"… an ID number, certainly…,"John read in Sherlock's glance that they were sharing the same suspicions.

"Tell me, Detective Inspector," Sherlock turned eagerly toward Bane, "what do you know about Harmen Cain's childhood?"

"Little, really. Generations of local folks remembered the Cains quite well. This was before my time—born in the fifties myself. 'E was an adult when we—Bebe and me—first laid eyes on 'im in the village, although our mums and dads remember 'im when they were little kids… they never played together, 'is elders wouldn't allow it."

"Your parents…were children…during World War I, yes?" John clarified.

"Yeah. WWI. The 'war to end all wars'," Bane mocked. "They were little tots, of course."

"So, Harmen Cain was alive then?" John verified before darting his eyes toward Sherlock. With a subtle nod of his head, the detective confirmed what John thought—the puzzle pieces were falling in place.

"That's what my folks said. A tot 'imself, came with the lot of Cains, the Marsh Men who brought their catch of fish and eels and waterfowls to the markets, baskets of peat, too. They looked like 'im, a strange-lookin' folk. Didn't 'elp they were mostly covered in mud and smelt of bog and fish, but the villagers paid little mind to them because they were social enough, conducted themselves with ordinary courtesies, and just as quickly left after they finished their business."

"So you parents knew Harmen Cain?" Sherlock isolated an important detail from the DI's tangential answers.

"Knew  _of_ … until he went away…or at least 'e stopped comin' with the Marsh Men to the village…Nobody asked 'em where 'e was—not proper to inquire. People assumed 'e 'ad died, my mum said. She was nine at the time "E was definitely the pippen _,_ the sickly 'runt of the litter.' But years later, when the war ended —the Second World War—and all the soldiers were comin' 'ome, 'e just started showin' up again. 'E had changed, though, all growed up, not a pippen no more. Can't imagine this by lookin' at the patient in that bed, but Mum said the ladies found 'is unusual, strikin' looks fascinatin' and 'e knew how to charm them. My mum and aunts tittered about 'im for years, even after they were married off with us kids, like 'e was some mystery man or movie star with ageless appeal."

"A brute with animal magnetism," Sherlock mused half to himself, "perhaps explained by the chemistry of powerful pheromones at work. We should run some tests on him, John…"

"Didn't have an explanation back then," Bane shrugged. "Yeah, it was odd, but more odd to the villagers was that after the war, 'is elders never returned with 'im to the village. 'E came alone. Rumor had it 'e had been orphaned 'cause of the war."

"There's still an unexplained gap of time between his childhood and his supposed return from the war, however," Sherlock asserted.

"Sure. It didn't add up, but that's what people thought when 'e told them who 'e was. 'E came back a strong-lookin' brute, like fightin' was what 'e was built for."

"Sherlock, is it possible he received the tattoo as a prisoner of war?" Doubt edged John's voice.

"Not that kind of ID and not in that location," Sherlock shook his head. "I think your first inclination was right, John."

"Of course you always know what I'm thinking," John mumbled behind a wry grin and turned toward Bane. "Was there any talk of Harmen Cain being a patient at The Brumeheld Asylum?"

"That looney bin? Well if there were talk, it were a joke, something we said after suspectin' 'im of the crime spree, but…" Bane's face showed his dawning understanding. "You might be right. That would explain those missin' years in 'is child'ood, wouldn it? What's the tattoo connection, d'ye think? "

"Tattoos were mentioned in the Medical journals. Records from The Brumeheld Asylum described tattoos to distinguish the patients," John replied. "Every head was shaved bald on intake purportedly to sanitize them against lice, bedbugs, skin disorders of all sorts, and each was given a tattoo—behind an ear."

"It was a method of both identity and control, to distinguish the inmates from staff," Sherlock explained to the DI, "If the old tales of the villagers were correct, the timing of Cain's return to the village fits the closing of the asylum."

"Not the end of the war…," Bane nodded, "I see!"

"Bollocks! _"_  John grimaced, "Dr. Spencer said his broken ribs were a childhood injury. He could have suffered mistreatment there." A frown furrowed his brow. "Any patient, but especially a child, suffering such heinous abuses would have lasting physical and emotional scars that could cause subsequent aberrant behavior. It would go a long way to explain the criminal activity Cain is accused of committing as an adult."

"Explain, but not excuse the crimes, certainly," Sherlock said pointedly, "We must look at the facts with cold detachment, John. But why admit a child in the first place? Unless there was evidence of some deviant behavior that merited custody and confinement—?"

"—Do you even hear yourself, Sherlock? You're blaming the victim—a child!" John argued, his temper flaring. "Not everyone admitted to the Brumeheld deserved to be there. Bloody hell! No one, no matter how violent, deserved torturous treatment. What came to light after they closed the asylum was criminal. Sweet-tempered patients who were mentally challenged with pervasive learning disabilities or individuals with genetic disorders were subjected to excruciating experiments in the name of science—" Flushed with unaccustomed rage, he stopped before his voice broke.

Silenced by John's passionate outburst, Sherlock drew back and studied his friend. At such times he felt inept dealing with John's emotional complexity despite understanding its origins:  _Instinct? A gut reaction_? O _bviously this was his blogger's vivid imagination at work and, by extension, imagining if Rosie were a victim, how he would protect_   _her?_  Sherlock's bringing John Watson back into "the game" had required reminding the caring doctor, the protective father, and the generally decent human being that his innate empathy would be an impediment in detective work. But then, it had always been the perceptive and stalwart heart that John brought to their work that Sherlock most valued.

He stepped incrementally closer, as much to re-ground John in their purpose in being here as to shield John from the DI's curiosity. In seconds, Sherlock's unwavering calm began to defuse the rage in John's expression. "Listen, John. I don't dispute the criminality of the authorities who caused the suffering of these asylum patients, but sentimentality may cause us to overlook other possibilities. There had to be a reason why Cain's wife accused him of being a grotesque abomination who deserved to die by her hand. We are here at her request to discover the truth, no matter how repugnant. We need to honor that request."

John screwed his eyes tight and heaved a deep sigh. When his lids opened, he signaled his commitment to their mission with a decisive nod of his head.

"Good," Sherlock flashed a scant smile and added in the barest whisper, "You're right, of course. Psychosis in a child  _is_  heartbreaking."

_That's right—his sister, Eurus!_  John felt ashamed for not making the connection immediately and fumbled for an apology.

Sherlock had already whirled around to face Bane, however. "Detective Inspector, we will need access to the Norfolk Constabulary archives," he said urgently. "I'm interested in the period prior to Harmen Cain's disappearance. Any reports, however meager, on deviant activity in the parish would be helpful. If we're lucky there might be a mention in your files or in local papers."

"What specifically are we lookin' for?"

"Oh. The random missing family pet, the half-eaten hen that escaped the henhouse," he said off-handedly, "...a lamb or kid lost in the marshes gnawed presumably by some beast."

Bane's eyes grew wide in understanding, "'E was doin' it as a boy?"

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment, but I am glad of all details … whether they seem to you to be relevant or not."

"On it," the DI nodded and pulled out his mobile to ring the sergeant at the constabulary. With his hand over one ear, Bane ducked into the room to speak in private.

John's eyes combed the hall of the immaculate FDH and mumbled. "It's a cruel irony for him to be brought back here, the site of the Old Brumehelm, to die, wouldn't you say?" John pulled a face, "You don't think she could've planned this, do you, Sherlock?"

"Not sure that she did," Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as if he were seeing across a great distance, "karma, possibly?"

"Seriously, karma?" John gave Sherlock a quizzical look."You think?"

"Nevermind," Sherlock shook his head. He had not told John about his stay with the Head Lama in Tibet where he "amused himself" with calming meditation and lessons in patience. It would have opened topics he was not prepared to discuss. Rather than explain what he meant, Sherlock redirected John's attention to two figures coming toward them: Dr. Spencer accompanied by an older woman, presumably Dr. Rath. "Look there, John. Answers straightaway, I suspect."

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A.N. From ACD  _The Empty House_ : "I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa and spending some days with the head Lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend."


	7. The Doctor's Tale

 

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After Dr. Spencer had made introductions and left to continue her rounds, Sherlock dropped all pretense of time-wasting cordiality, "Dr. Rath, I believe you're expecting me."

Momentary surprise gave way to relief in Dr. Dana Rath's expression. She immediately sat down in an upholstered chair, one of several in the private sitting room, grateful to be off her feet.

"Yes, but I am amazed, Mr. Holmes, because you had little to go on," she blushed and grinned, "I owe you my apologies! It struck me when I came back on duty this morning that, in my haste to post the letter two days ago, I had unfortunately neglected to specify a location. I had planned when I finished my rounds to ring you to explain my mistake."

"The letter you assisted Mrs. Cain in writing?"

"Again you live up to your famous reputation!"

While Rath gave Sherlock an appreciative nod, Bane scowled, annoyed that the world-famous Sherlock Holmes was upstaging his authority.

"You knew its contents," Sherlock stated pointedly, "What else do you know?"

"Where shall I begin, Mr. Holmes?" She smiled sadly. "My affiliation with FDH spans over twenty-five years and numerous patients have come through these doors. No matter how unusual each case might be, details about these patients tend to get blurred—but not this one. Never this one! Have a seat, gentlemen," Dr. Rath gestured to the three men. "This may take a while."

Although John and Bane obliged, Sherlock did not. He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace in a slow rhythm, using strategic intervals to observe the DI and the woman doctor.

"Three years ago a shriveled old woman was brought here, dehydrated and somewhat delirious. A few hours of hydration brought her out of her delirium," Dr. Rath leant back in her chair and massaged the frown lines from her forehead. "I believe they found her several kilometers north of the coastal village Thornham—"

"—that was the same area," Bane cut in, his tone officious, "where the John Doe—the man I've just identified as 'Armen Cain—was picked up."

_Uh, oh,_  John thought. Bane was showing signs of someone who felt professionally challenged. John had seen this many times before and knew how easily Sherlock alienated local law enforcement with his astonishing observations. And Sherlock never helped his case when he let them know how stupid they were or made them feel inadequate. The latter had just occurred. Bane's reaction to Sherlock's revelations from moments ago did not bode well for them and their further involvement in the Cain investigation, especially if the DI's ego was so easily bruised. Then again, it may not have been all Bane's fault. Sherlock's acerbic wit, at full intensity, could fracture concrete.

"It's in the paramedic's report," Bane continued. "Precisely two kilometers south of the national reserves, were you aware of that fact?"

"Yes. I am now. Dr. Spencer told me this only a few minutes ago," Rath replied, sidetracked by the DI's interjection. "I had no way of knowing there was a connection."

"Yet, you must've made some connection," Bane eyed her skeptically, "because you sent a letter to Mr. 'Olmes that suggests you suspected somethin'."

"Well, yes. I can see how that would seem contradictory. But I didn't send the letter immediately," Rath defended herself. "You see, I was heading out at the same time the paramedics brought him into the AE, so I missed his intake-processing. I only had a glimpse of the patient. I noted he was enormous, a giant, but that afternoon I had more pressing family concerns waiting for me at home. We had scheduled a brief overnight getaway to London for an evening performance at the National Theatre. Later that night, in our hotel room, I remembered…"

"Remembered what exactly?" Sherlock's pacing slowed.

"Descriptions…rumor of the wild Marsh Man…the Wild Man..." Rath paused under pretense of checking her trimmed nails, "and what I carried. I remembered her letter and the obligation that had gone unfulfilled. I began to wonder if I had put it off too long."

Sherlock's head tilted in his peculiar way; he was listening between the words. "So it was after you saw the unidentified patient that you thought of Harmen Cain?"

"Yesssss," the doctor hissed her hesitancy. "It triggered _something_ , and although I couldn't be certain—I had no real proof—that night in the hotel, I found it difficult to sleep. Rather, I kept thinking about that note, wondering when I should send it, never knowing if that man were already dead or had died elsewhere. Early the next morning, I pulled the letter, which I had kept on me as promised, from my purse and posted it in London. Immediately after I sent it to you, Mr. Holmes, I felt relieved of an impossible burden; later I even felt that my instincts were right! But if I were wrong about his identity," she shrugged, "—you see I had hoped to learn more today—I would've rung you with apologies for wasting your time. I never expected you to arrive so quickly—"

"Why, Dr. Rath, was the letter addressed to Mr. 'Olmes and not the police?" Bane criticized. "It makes no sense to involve a celebrity," his mocking emphasis was unmistakable, "when you have a celebrated Constabulary right 'ere in the district."

"There is a reason for that, Detective Inspector. I would like to explain, if I may?" Rath's cobalt blue eyes swept from Sherlock across to where John was seated and lingered on Bane in the last armchair. "I know this is a police matter now, and Beatrice Winifred Cain is deceased so I am not wrongly divulging patient information, but this case resonated with me on so many levels...so pitiful…a tragic outcome to a long story. Heartbreaking all the more to me once I realized who she was—"

Sherlock cocked his head, alert to the subtle shift in Rath's voice.

"I couldn't believe it when she told me she was Winnie Cain of Mearcstapa!" Rath smiled fondly, "Was this really Winnie—the 'wildflower', the enviable beauty of our entire village? Except, she called me by name, leaving no doubt she was still the same person I remembered as a child; I felt both shocked and dismayed by her terrible condition. Her skin was weathered; she was missing teeth, she was so emaciated. I'm sure much was due to her liver cancer. Yet, she was still as sharp as a tack…"

Sherlock had been watching Bane's reaction while Dr. Rath spoke. The DI had kept an impassive face as she described her patient's condition, until Rath said, "sharp as a tack." Immediately Bane grinned in agreement. Sherlock also noted the genuine nostalgia in the doctor's voice. While neither Bane nor Rath showed awareness of the other's sentiments, both demonstrated familiarity with the dead woman—Sherlock pondered the possibility of a connection between them.

Rath squinted as if peering into the past, "Winnie was only sixty-one; she should not have looked ninety, but it wasn't just the disease that tortured her; there was something much more terrible on her mind." She swallowed and cleared her throat. " When I was off duty, I would sit at her bedside just to keep her company. She had no visitors…no friends…no one, except me…her prognosis, a matter of weeks. Her sleep was fitful, the morphine dose was already high, and sometimes she would cry out. One night she woke with such a start, sat up in bed, and pointed with a trembling finger at something she imagined just beyond my bedside chair, 'Murder! Murder! Beast! Devil! You  _MON_ -ster!' It fair rang through the corridor and it sent the shivers through me. Even the desk sister came running, wondering if I needed assistance."

"Why didn't you contact the authorities then?" Bane reacted irritably. "'Er claims would have been a police matter."

Dr. Rath sighed and shook her head to dislodge the faraway look in her eye. She surveyed the men in the room. "I asked her that the morning after her night terror. 'If you have anything troubling you, we have the hospital chaplain,' I had said, 'and there's the police. Let me call someone to help you ease your mind.' But she was adamant. 'For God's sake, not the police!' She started crying. Despite receiving fluids, she wept without producing tears. When she calmed herself, she insisted, 'And the clergy can't change what is past.'" Rath lowered her gaze to the hands clenched in her lap.

""Er testimony about  _that very_  past," the detective inspector growled, "would 've been crucial in linkin' Cain to 'is many crimes!"

"Winnie was determined, Inspector, bloody stubborn as always!" Rath's focus turned further inward; her voice was filled with remorse. "I couldn't convince her—" Although it appeared the doctor wanted to say more, she swallowed the words and leant forward, her eyelashes moist, "and yet Winnie said it would ease her mind if someone knew the truth before she died."

"This is why you helped her write the letter," Sherlock concluded.

"Yes! That was when I suggested she write to you, Mr. Holmes." Rath followed the pacing detective with her eyes. "Winnie asked for my help. What could I do? It was her 'note in a bottle,' she called it and insisted on using the mildewed paper and envelope in her musty old purse. She said the stationery was a gift she cherished. So I gave her a pen."

"You offered no intervention to normalize her spelling or grammar," Sherlock noted.

Rath grimaced. "Believe me, I tried. I kept offering to write it for her, her language skills had eroded after so much time and her hand was so shaky. As I said before, her stubborn streak was showing."

_"Notice the language lacks formal training."_  Sherlock's voice echoed in John's head, " _The misspellings reflect a regional dialect. See how the script appears stylish yet less than well-formed like someone with a weak or arthritic hand, the message is written on stationery with a floral design from the early 1960s; it's yellowed with age and musty smelling."_

"When Winnie finished it," the doctor continued, "she handed it to me demanding I promise to carry it at all times and not send it until her husband was dying or dead," Rath shook her head, "as if I would know when he was dying or would turn up dead, but I did as she instructed… and held on to it."

Rath's mobile beeped. She stiffened and patted the pockets of her white coat. Pulling out both her spectacles and her phone, she eyed the message and sighed, "All good, still." Tucking them both away, she resumed, "Okay, where were we? So you can imagine my surprise when Dr. Spencer told me you were already here and that you also had questions about Winnie, after three years. She says you have excellent reason to believe that the unidentified man is—"

"—Harmen Cain," Sherlock finished for her, " —but more importantly, Doctor, I have excellent reason to believe you knew Winnie intimately before she was your patient and not just as a childhood friend, although I can't blame you for not yet disclosing your personal relationship with her."

"—What do you mean, 'Olmes," Bane snapped, irritated that Sherlock appeared again to be several steps ahead.

"The fault is yours, Bane, for interrupting the good doctor on the onset; she would've told us on more than one occasion." Sherlock swiveled to face Dr. Rath and assured her, "I realize the reunion you experienced three years ago after nearly a life-long separation from your half-sister was difficult. You must not feel remiss about your estrangement or the life she endured. Regrettably, if the circumstances as we have learnt today were at all true, law enforcement efforts had been ineffective, so too would have been any attempts you might have made to rescue her yourself. You were after all years too young."

Dr. Dana Rath gasped, "How did you know we were  _half_ -sisters?"

"Dr. Watson will tell you, I have my methods," Sherlock's lips quirked in a thin smile.

Stunned by the revelation, Detective Inspector Bane rose to his feet. " _YOU!_  You…you're DeeDee?" he exhaled with a wheeze. "You were a mere tot when my family moved away…."

"And who are  _you?_ " Rath glowered at his impertinence.

"Gareth Bane, an old friend of Bebe's— Gary..." beneath the surface of his words was a boyish yearning to be remembered.

"You're ...Gary?" she asked hoarsely, her hand flew to her throat. "I don't remember you! I mean, as a real person. She said you called her  _Bebe_." Her eyes, wide in initial surprise, narrowed skeptically; her voice grew accusatory. "Her friend 'Gary' was all she spoke about when I was growing up. An invisible friend, I thought, as I grew older…a figment of her excessive imagination…especially when 'Gary' never came back. When she left at sixteen, she said it was because she wouldn't wait anymore."

"She didn't wait long enough," the DI mumbled, "Sixteen! Damn impetuous lass!"

As John gawked in amazement, Sherlock remained unmoved by the not-so-touching reunion. "You see, Dr. Rath, even Detective Inspector Gareth Bane has some untold truths about his old friend. However, I am stymied. If you knew her, why are you unable to recognize her husband?"

"—Her common-law husband," Rath said with bite in her voice. "I was barely nine years old when I had last seen him and quite naïve back then when …when he…when Winnie left the village and disappeared with... him in the fenlands—I remember  _that_  clearly, but not him! Even though I couldn't remember the man's appearance, I do remember more the feelings I had about him. He was both fierce and alluring which apparently is what many women, including Winnie, found appealing. Thank God I was too young!" Rath shuddered, her nose wrinkled with disgust.

"Was that the last you saw of 'er?" A muscle in Bane's jaw twitched, but he kept his eyes hooded and his expression hard, "after she went away?"

"No. She did come to back to the village several times a year to trade in the market and to visit me," Rath turned somber eyes on the detective inspector. "Eventually her visits became less frequent and more unpleasant as she had always been argumentative and moody. Life in the marsh did not change that aspect of her. Ultimately she stopped coming, I went on to study medicine, and we—my mum and dad and siblings—lost touch. We all assumed she had become a recluse, like him…but was he a monster?" Rath shrugged. "What was monstrous was how that life changed Winnie! You can imagine my amazement, after all these years, at finding her here! And yes, I was most shocked to have seen her in her wasted condition."

Rath gestured in the direction of the critical care unit, "However, that patient down the hall is a shell of that man, if he even  _is_  the same man. What I saw this morning when I checked in was a frail figure, not the ogre Harmen Cain, which was her deathbed claim. So now, I'm not quite sure what to think—"

"Yet, you feel Winnie was of sound mind?" Sherlock verified. "So, you don't believe she was lying?'

"Yes. Sound mind until the bitter end!" The doctor confirmed, "Lying? No. Even though she could spin a tale or two when she was younger, I saw the evidence of her grim life in the ruin of her body."

"I don't understand," John admitted. "Why did she require you to wait until her husband was dead or dying to send her note?"

Rath sat in silence, considering how best to answer him. "Winnie told me that when he was dying he would be at his weakest. She insisted it would be unwise for authorities to try dragging him out of the marshes until he could be overpowered. She didn't say why at first, but later I understood. It was for the constables' own protection."

Bane cursed under a strangled cough. "Once you suspected 'is identity, the police should 'ave been called in straightaway, yes?" Bane charged in a tone more appropriate for an interrogation room.

"Remember, Inspector, he arrived several days ago, and he isn't my patient!" Rath folded her hands in her lap, her tone icy with defensiveness. "Not only were all my speculations done far from the hospital and in hindsight based upon a scant glimpse of a man, I allowed intuition to guide me while on holiday. I did not want to accuse a dying man on mere guesswork. Besides, the hospital has protocols for seeking help from the police and the public to identify a person."

Rath's stern reply silenced Bane who averted his eyes and checked his temper.

"Well," Sherlock said cheerily and clapped his hands as if he could reset the mood of the room. "The pieces of this puzzle are falling into place but we still don't have the full picture. It's safe to say that the man in ICU has been identified as Harmen G. Cain and that Dr. Spencer has clarified to some degree the method of Mrs. Cain's long-term assault on her common-law husband, however," Sherlock began pacing more vigorously, "the reason for our visit is to determine the motive behind her confession of murder—which so far is supported by her husband's 'alleged' criminal history—but we have no concrete evidence, no tangible details," Sherlock halted in mid stride, "and the devil's in the details."

"Perhaps, I can help you there, Mr. Holmes." Rath's face brightened with the prospect of unburdening yet another long-held secret. "After Winnie wrote that note to you, she opened up. Like many of the dying, she found it therapeutic—cathartic. What she told me about the man whom you have officially identified, Detective Inspector, was unforgettable. And God help me, I believed every word of it. Finally, I can talk for her…"

"Sorry! Your belief is not enough," Sherlock raised his hand as if to prevent the doctor from speaking further. "Except for her letter, are there no written documents signed by B. Winifred Cain? Otherwise merely recounting what you recall from three years ago is at best, second-hand and more likely tainted by faulty memory and unintended innuendo."

Dr. Rath looked decidedly affronted.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John twisted in his seat, baffled that Sherlock would be so dismissive. "We should hear what she has to say, especially if this is all we're going to have—"

"Let 'er talk, 'Olmes!" Bane slammed the chair arm with a meaty fist. "It's too late for any court proceedin's on Cain, in any event. We might as well learn as much as possible from witnesses after the fact—"

"Enlightening as this all has been," Sherlock resumed when their protests ceased, "it doesn't change that what you have to say, Dr. Rath, is hearsay and as such is heavily speculative at that. While it is true I have in the past heard unverifiable stories from my clients and then sorted through them to ascertain the facts, it would be preferred to have first-hand evidence as well. It is perfectly clear to me," Sherlock announced definitively, "we must go to Mearcstapa to gather evidence."

"'Olmes, what you're proposing is no easy feat," Bane snapped in irritation. "It's no stroll in the countryside. It's the most treacherous part of the fenlands with bogs and beasts and poisonous snakes and deadly snares set by Cain."

"It does sounds quite dangerous, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you might postpone your visit to the marshlands a bit longer," Rath beamed a Mona Lisa smile. "What if I can provide testimony in her own voice, a SPOKEN record? In the interest of full disclosure, I will tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I had privately recorded her with my phone. Once she understood the mobile technology—there were so many advances she missed—Winnie willingly agreed to let me use it. I've since had the recording uploaded to the cloud for safekeeping."

John and Sherlock exchanged pleased looks.

"Lacking a live witness, this dying declaration will be quite satisfactory," Sherlock agreed, but added a caveat, "as long as it proves credible. Even a first-hand narrative is a mere tale and requires more than its telling to be substantiated."

"Then I hope it was right to enlist your service, Mr. Holmes," the doctor said with a gleam in her eyes. "I believe as you listen to her side of the events, it will provide you with the helpful evidence you seek whether or not you head into the wilds," and once again she drew the mobile from her pocket, this time to access the cloud.

888***888

888***888

* * *

 

A.N. If Winnie's night terror seems familiar, it is because it has been borrowed from Doyle's  _The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger_  found in the collection: _"The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes."_


	8. The Sister's Tale

  

**WARNING: _Not graphic, but contains language suggesting depictions of violence._**

 

888***888

"How d'ya know?"

"Hmmm?"

"The half-sister bit. Did you guess?"

"It was more than obvious to anyone paying attention."

Sherlock frowned at John as they waited in the private room. DI Gareth Bane and Dr. Dana Rath had each stepped out into the corridor to handle business. Bane could be heard ringing the station with his report and speaking with several department heads about summoning a task force, and Rath, after conferring about a patient, approached Winnie's old friend when he was done both to exchange information and share anecdotes about her. Where the DI and the doctor stood in the hall their conversational voices carried through the open door. Although Dr. Rath had promised to play Winnie's recording when she returned, Sherlock and John welcomed this hiatus to compare perspectives about Cain's criminal history and his probable hospitalization at the Brumehelm Asylum. Their discussion ended with John's "How-did-you-know, Did-you-guess?" cheekiness.

"I suspect, John, you always ask me that question merely to goad me. You know I don't guess," the detective retorted wearily. After a pause he added, "I surmise."

"Semantics," John quipped flatly and leant back in his armchair. "All right, then. Based on what?"

"What I heard in her tone of voice, her words, what I saw in her body language, her face, her obvious attachment to the patient."

"Go on," John stretched his legs and spread wide both arms across the upholstered chair back, appearing relaxed. "I'm all ears."

Given John's skepticism, Sherlock's reply was typically tetchy, "Has it ever occurred to you and your lot that you have been making false assumptions about my so-called social 'ineptitude?' Granted, I may appear inept in translating social cues amongst friends, but I have more than proven my success in deducing the truth from the manners and expressions of strangers. This skill has served the work far better than concerning myself with whether I have hurt someone's far-too-sensitive feelings by my candor."

"Old news, Sherlock. Seriously, what clued you in?"

"You observed it yourself, didn't you?" Sherlock had at last stopped pacing and dropped into the chair opposite John—the seating arrangement felt familiar, not unlike 221B—to continue the conversation. "When she first spoke about recognizing the dying woman, it was with a wistful familiarity regarding place and people that indicated more than a patient-doctor relationship. Also, beneath her posh speech she has not completely lost the speech patterns of this region, unlike Bane who has absorbed the Manchester influence."

"Okay," John conceded, "Yeah. The accent connection is helpful."

"Various phrases she used were telltale such as: 'still _as sharp as a tack,_   _promise to carry it at all times,_   _stubborn_  streak,  _stubborn as_ always _,'_ —that in particular confirms Bane's remark about Bebe's problems with 'family issues'—but the way Dr. Rath used the words 'still' and 'always' and 'streak' connoted long-term knowledge, intimacy even. A close friend, perhaps, but the difference in their ages works against it, I think."

"Yeah, I see your point," John stroked his chin as reflection and Sherlock's explanations brought things into focus.

"Think, John! Why would Winnie entrust her written confession—her dying wish—to a random doctor?"

"It happens sometimes," John shrugged. "Frequently patients feel a strong bond with the people they see most in their final days; some have been known to make some unusual dying requests of their doctors."

"Would you accept such an important responsibility from a patient who was merely a past acquaintance and then do nothing about it for years?"

"That's hardly fair, Sherlock. Everyone's different. I'd feel obligated to do my best to find family…someone closer to the patient for whom that responsibility would be more appropriate. Holding on to someone's personal effects would make me uncomfortable."

"Precisely my point! Yet Dr. Rath did _not_ express this when she admitted to holding Winnie's letter for three years. She didn't try to locate family nor wonder why she had it, or if she should have it, only wondered  _when_  to send it. It is likely she held Mrs. Cain's note as much for sentimental as for duty-bound reasons."

"Huh!" John grunted in acknowledgement.

"And the big one: While she did say, and I repeat: ' _I would sit at her bedside just to keep her company. She had no visitors…no friends…no one, except me…'_  Did you listen? She never said no family, because there was family there.  _She_  was family!"

"Sure, okay, but she could have been a relative, a cousin, maybe? What made you think a half-sister, not just a full sister?" John crossed one leg and hugged his knee as he subconsciously adjusted his comfort level.

Sherlock had John's complete attention now; he dropped his head to hide his satisfied grin. This distraction from routines fatherhood seemed to be working.

"The age gap between sisters was crucial, John. I based my deduction both on the doctor's body language and the statistical studies regarding the timing and incidence of half-siblings. By the age of ten, the firstborn of an unwed mother has a sixty-percent chance of having a half-sibling—"

"—Wait," John uncrossed his leg and leant forward. "I can't believe you deduced  _that_  from their age difference. They were seven years apart. That can happen in a traditional family. You and Mycroft, for instance. And what do you mean, unwed mother?"

"Obviously, Winnie's mother was unmarried."

_"Obviously?"_

"A young parent, John," Sherlock dismissed his friend's scoffing tone "—especially a teen parent—has all sorts of social and educational limitations. Presumably Winnie's unmarried mother had Winnie at a young age herself, but that Winnie's sister, Dana—we can assume her surname Rath is her married name; she wears a wedding band—was another offspring who likely was born in a traditional-family setting."

"And you know this how?"

"Winnie showed no inclination to further her education or position in life at sixteen when she was lured by Cain. Even in rural parts of the UK, marriage at sixteen requires parental consent, a court order, and a license. It is not clear any of those were granted. From this information I deduced that she grew up without the essentials of authoritative parenting and as a consequence took more liberties and was more headstrong, than her younger siblings. However, the critical indicator of the half-sibling relationship was that her sister, Dana Rath, only seven years younger had succeeded in becoming a doctor. A traditional family is more economically stable to afford better educational and vocational opportunities for their children."

"No, no, no, ..stop it, now!" John shook his head vigorously, barely able to contain his skepticism. "There are so many other variables that could explain the different ages and career choices or, in this case, lack thereof. You had no solid evidence of their relationship, until Rath confirmed it." John leant back in his chair, his arms again spread across its upholstered back, savoring the rightness of his position. "In my book, this 'surmising, theorizing, speculating,' all mean pretty much the same thing. You guessed!"

"It was an informed deduction based on a variety of factors...," Sherlock's insistence failed to persuade his friend.

" _In_ duction,"John insisted, blinked several times then stared at his friend in silence. A lopsided smile slowly formed and one eyebrow rose questioningly. "If memory serves me, when we met you were not above admitting when it was a ' _shot in the dark,'_ and that you didn't ' _expect to be right about everything,'_ " he teased, snorting a deep chuckle. "You've told me many times that I know your methods! In fact I do! I can tell when you have evidence to make connections nobody sees and when you...do this sort of thing. You guessed they were half-sisters. A lucky guess and a  _bloody_   _damn_ amazing one, too. No less impressive, I admit," John's laughter trickled lightheartedly at first, but the longer it persisted, the deeper the pleasure it conveyed.

"Obtuseness doesn't become you, John," Sherlock tried to rein in his own amusement until John's had wound down but his friend's infectious merriment triggered the detective to join in. Sherlock tamed his snickering at last, and waved John to quiet down but it was too late. Their laughter brought Bane and Rath back into the room, each wearing a quizzical and judgemental expression.

Regarding them with his most innocent look, Sherlock said, "Well, shall we get on with it now?"

**888**

**"I'm Beatrice Winifred Cain, _useter_  be Dawes, like me mum... afore she married that Steven Clerkson and begun their family when I wuz six…." ** _The woman's voice was tired, weak and a bit raspy,_ **"I'm speakin' to my haf-sis…, Dana Clerkson…, oldest on two haf-youngins…um… oh yeah, Doc Rath, look on yer, married and a high-larned doctor, good on'yer, DeeDee!"**

"Damn!" John muttered an aside, grudging respect in his whisper. "Right you are!"

Sherlock shot John a quick smile. They were standing side-by-side behind Bane and Rath who occupied the armchairs that had been moved together. This seating cluster, grouped around Dr. Rath's phone, would enable all to listen as she replayed her sister's audio file.

" **This is,"** _the voice wobbled_ **, "the truth about my common-law husband Harmen Grendel Cain."**

_Winnie wheezed hoarsely_ **. "Harmen wuz a…murderous waarmin, wicked as the devil… he fish and hunt in the shallows and marshes for eels and fowl, but anything he catch were game—"** _There was a great pause_.

**"Okay, Winnie, but I think we need details….can you tell me more?"**

_Winnie drew in a deep breath_ **. "Details? Wha kind?"**

**"Maybe more about his… habits…eating habits…I guess."**

**"Habits? Dornt yew remember, DeeDee? He useter come to the villages, sellin' 'n tradin', carryin' on the tribal business, wha all Cains done."** _Winnie's voice was noticeably agitated._ **"Sold fish, waterfowl, peat, to the villagers, sedge and reeds, too, for thatchin'. The older farmers told me that he ent like his close-knit folk, he were more a-loner in his ways… This made him a-curious, 'specially with the women."**

_The nasty cough that interrupted her soon became a sneering cackle. When Winnie resumed her story, her disdain was unmistakable._ **"The idiot maws in the markets and shops clucked like hens around him. Yeah. That was something rumman 'bout him, yeah strange, but like a force on nature, pullin' for attention and pullin' yew down with him. Yeah, I felt it, too, 'round him for no good reason."** _She sighed audibly and subdued another cough._ **"Well, that ent zackly true; his strong arms, those muscles, and his _eyes_ , they were the reasons."**

**"As you say, you weren't alone in that regard,"** _Dana said sympathetically._

**"Dornt know why we thought he were so fine? He wernt youn' alike us,"** _Winnie mumbled,_ **"Duzzy maws we were!"**

**"No one really knew his true age,"** _Dana replied._ **"I guess if you did the math based on what Pappy remembered about him, he was fifty. It was hard to believe, though."**

**"He had a gret head and his jaws! His forehead stuck out like a cliff! We were so blind!"**

**"All I remember was the village men were spooked by him,"** _Dana recalled, speaking from her perspective as a nine-year-old at the time._ **"They referred constantly to his 'dour visage'—I didn't know what that meant until later but I guessed it was the reason they knew to stay away."**

**"Ooooh, they knew he wuz crafty, a fierce hunter! Fish, waterfowl and fen creatures, easy prey for the likes on him. Wha they knew made 'em afreard,"** _Winnie spoke harshly, caught by a strong wave of memory._ **"T'hell with all on 'em. That make sense now; the cowards dint stop the monster from stealing into the village. They were too afreard to fight him away from their own women, but I…I wuz the human sacrifice….yeah…I wuz child's play. He dint haf atrouble lurin' me."**

_Jesus_! John cursed silently listening to Winnie's disturbed tale—a teen seduced by a mad man—and did his best to tamp down his disgust. Yet, John was unprepared for how untamed she seemed. Winnie's inconsistent mix of modern standard and Norfolk dialect retained some rural elements Dana Rath had entirely strained from hers, but the Fenland woman's volatile temper made her sound a bit mad in the recording. Whether her mental state was affected by her illness was hard to determine; it was evident that life in the wild had had enormous impact on her bold speech. But to have endured so long, she was obviously no ordinary person. Surviving such hardships required an indomitable spirit.

Next to John, Sherlock stood with his eyes closed to focus his attention, filtering the few discernible facts from the disjointed ramblings of the sick woman.

**"Winnie, where did he take you?"**

**"North edge uppards that nature reserve...Holme... Mearcstapa they called it, where his tribe allus lived. Dead, all on them ar'er—after—the war, afore I got there; I larnt that much from papers I found."**

**"What kind of papers?"**

_Either Winnie had not heard Dana's question or had been too confused to understand it. Her mind and memory had taken her elsewhere._ **"Bein'as' he go to the local villages to trade for things he dunt make, like steel for his tools and snares and sharp blades. He wuz clever enough to make traps without metal, but sharp steel made his traps deadlier."** _Mired in her recollections, Winnie's voice faded, as if she was speaking about the past across a chasm in time._ **"...I watch and larn many on his skills."**

**"Dear,"** _Dana prompted her gently._ **"Please speak up."**

**"Huh?"**

**"My mobile….talk louder into it,"** _Dana encouraged._

**"Yis, yis."** _The old woman cleared her throat and resumed at a better volume. **"**_ **He dunt like furriners—foreigners, bein' everyun else,' cept me… to keep 'em out, he build traps all around Mearcstapa …at least that wuz what I first thought, but keeping 'em out, that weren't allus his plan—sometimes he just keep 'em."**  A coughing fit interrupted her again.

**"Water?"** _the sisterly voice offered. There was the sound of swallowing and a_ **"thak yew,"** _then Winnie continued with effort but without elaborating on her previous remarks._ **"We live uppards center, in un thatched roundhouse—the Cain tribal home. That wuz most out-of-the-way and around it wuz his barricades …,"** _she muttered something more._

It was spoken so softly they had to strain to hear. Sherlock asked Rath to play it back several times until he was sure what he heard.

**"No boat... and every loke and straite set with traps,"** _her voice rasped_ **. "That wuz _how_  he keep me, 'special when I wuz un frazzled lummox and full with babies."**

Sherlock's eyes flew open and immediately sought John's, but Bane expressed his shock aloud, "There are babies? Children? Where are they now?"

Dr. Rath did not answer him. She let the audio of the dialogue finish.

**"Oh, Winnie!"** _There was a gasp then Dana's voice trembled._   **"Winnie, Winnie? Can you hear me? We must stop here for a little while; you're tired—"**

**"Nooooo,"** _Winnie whimpered, her voice thin with fatigue._ **"Gimme a min..."**

Dana Rath paused the recording and rose from her chair to pluck facial tissues from a box nearby. She mopped her eyes. "There's more, but I'll stop it here to answer your questions. Winnie told me some time later, not while I was recording her, that she had as many as seventeen pregnancies, at least what she can remember, all but one died before term—each malformed, incomplete—and that one died at childbirth. To quote Winnie, the infant was not fathered by 'a human bein', but suffin else.' And for each child she lost, he beat her, but never so much that she couldn't fulfill her conjugal duties..." Rath ended on a note of justified bitterness.

Learning what Winnie had suffered made the words in her letter " _grotesk, an abominashun.…a clever monster…,"_ and her motives why _"For his deeds, he deserve to die,"_ painfully clear to everyone in the room. John's pinched features showed his disgust and distress. Sherlock's expression was far more disciplined but to someone who knew how to read him, his revulsion at these revelations was not as disguised as it might once have been.

After stifling his sniffs, it was Bane who broke the room's silence "What the  _fuckin'ell_  possessed 'er to go off with bloody bastard in the first place?"

888***888


	9. More of the Sister's Tale

**WARNING: _Not graphic, but contains language suggesting depictions of violence._**

 

888***888

Once Gareth Bane and Dana Rath had recovered their composure, the doctor sat back in her chair. "This part of Winnie's recording is long," she warned the men. "And after a bit of prompting from me, she was unstoppable. I let her talk. I don't think she spoke so much in her life, at least after she went away. I doubt she had much opportunity to speak her mind when she lived in the wilds. You'll notice the more she talks on this recording, the more normalized she becomes. It's still a confusing mix of old dialect, but she loved reading and read bedtime stories to me often when I was little. She liked impressing me with fancy words. I think some of this helped her because, by the end of this recording,  _that_  Winnie finds her voice."

Rath smile ruefully and turned to the Detective Inspector, "Are we okay?"

Bane gave her an approving nod, then she hit play.

 **"Ready?"** _Dana was heard to ask when the recording resumed playing._

 **"Yis. Much, much betta than yisty. Not so war up today. A good day for this, DeeDee. Where wuz I?"** _Winnie's voice had strength and vigor. By the sound of it, she had rested far longer; twenty-four hours of palliative care in the hospital had revived her._

**"I think you should explain how Harmen —"**

**"—Okay, I _know_!" ** _Winnie jumped in._ **"Yis. I had seen him once or twice afore. Actual, that wuz _afore_  you were born, DeeDee. I wuz un wee un and Gary's folks took us over to Thornham... That weren't until years later, at sixteen when I first hear him called the 'mystery man' by the  _maws_ …um…the girls. Yew know, I left home by then and moved to that  _hoddy-doddy_ flat, atop the village chemist's, to start my own life. I culdn't stay on the farm with Mum's husband, your Da, DeeDee. He wuz always mobbun about suffun. Layin' down rules, hated everythin' I do: my talk, my walk. He'd a**  **get on to me fierce for shirkin' my chores, viewin' the American shows on the telly, or readin' 'trashy' novels. That I breathed the bloody air around him, that crazed him! He'd yell 'til he wuz red in the face: 'Yew undisciplined, ranny, headed for trouble, _'_  He dint ortera dun it 'cause I got onto to him, I'd give it right back at him, cussin' like the very she-devil just to rile him…I dornt remember what we went on about haf the time…I shuld be a-gettin' high-larned educashun maybe? What to do with the whole on my life?—"**

 **"I know, dear,"** _Rath's sisterly voice soothed_ **. "We don't need to talk about that."**

**"Alookin' back now, Dana, those squabbles atwin us weren't nothing like the beatin's from Harmen."**

**"Ah. Yes, a cruel irony to it, Winnie. But tell me more about that day you _met_  Harmen."**

**" _That_ day dint happen until a month later. Mid-summer and I wuz workin' on the stall in the village market assistin' customers. Yew wuz with me there! I remember like yisty, I useter mind yew sometimes. I liked workin' there and felt proud because I allus sold the most for the farmers, some from Unk George's and some from his neighbors. I also made and sold my own reed baskets. Remember, I larn yew to weave atwin idle times at the market? The other girls sold their crafts too, blankets, jewelry, embroidery; they spent all the time chattin', gossipin'...I stayed back. I dint like them…their**  ** _mardle_** **waggin tongues...'sides, they dint care for me."**

 **"That's right,"** _Dana recollected,_ **"They were always giggling. Sometimes they looked at us as if we were the joke."**

 **" _Bitches!_ " ** _Winnie rasped._

 **"They _were_  cruel... but, I wasn't there  _that_  day he came," ** _Dana coaxed._ **"Tell me what happened."**

**"Up 'til _that_  day, Harmen's visits were a-rare, but the girls talked foolish and of little else— maddening as magpies—about how he'd  _higgle_  off his catch and the peat, then he come to the produce stalls and gawp—"**

_Winnie coughed but quickly recovered_ **. "They 'love it' when he wuld round the various stalls. They shewed what they meant and act like him, touchin' the cabbages, the tomatoes, the summer squashes all sexy like. They squabbled, wantin' to win his heart-apumpin' gawp. Made them lightheaded and their hearts beat faster, they said. But when a father-brother-uncle-sweetheart step _forrards_  to block them, that crazed them most of all!"**

 **"I don't remember any fights among the men,"** _Dana said doubtfully._

 **"There weren't, much to the relief of those knights in shining armor. Not un of those girls were worth un outright battle. They were all _duzzy_  and empty-headed. They wuld've withered in the wilds. Not like me!" ** _Winnie's words echoed pride, and the snicker that followed was low, scratchy, and mirthless._ **"Those girls were weak-kneed and stupid. I kept apart 'cause they called me** **'nasty particular'—their words.** **Bein'as I weren't like them, I let them know, by mockin' them with my eyes. Guess, that weren't good, I see that now."**

 **"They teased you, Win. They were jealous of how you could do _everything_  better. And of course, they were infatuated with the Wild Man, even the married women were…so many were fooled by him, not just you," ** _Dana reminded her._

 **"But I wuz the gret _shanny_ —fool—on all!  _Un_  friend, maybe…maybe someun wuld've stept  _forrard_ ," ** _Winnie whipped back, hoarse with fury. She sniffed several times. When her voice returned, anger had vanished, replaced by a raw candor._ **"That first I lay eyes on him…that… the _feelin'_ … wuz instant for me. I  _culdn't_  look away. I try to hide my curiosity, but he notice. I feel the other girls starin' fire at me 'cause directly he come  _ahind_  my produce stall, fondlin' the vegetables all sexy and all and chat me up.**  ** _Bishy-barney-bee—_** **ladybird—he call me. What he say _ar'er—_ after—weren't about the squash and lettuce or even about my reed baskets; that I realise much later when my head wuz clear. 'Tight and strong,' That make my face burn with embarrassment. No idea when he first catched my eye what I wuz doomed. And unlike the others, there wuz no champion to break his spell on me."**

 **"I am _SO_ sorry, Winnie!" ** _Dana said tearfully; the pain of those memories had reopened an old wound._   **"I tried."**

 **"Yew're a child,**   **not above nine. Even if yew hadn't been, yew alone culdn't do nothin'. Asides, there wuz no un who wanted to fight for me—yis, I know I wuz un unholy terror with a vicious temper—I got what I gave, I expect. And so I went with him two months ar'er we met—I wuz pull with excitement to follow the Wild Man, to spite those girls too, to find a life without rules, never… 'suspectin' _…_  the truth…the truth he wuz so good at hidin' for many… uppards twenty years."**

" _Yes, go on_!" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, his frustration aggravated by the long backstory. Although he nodded in sympathy with Sherlock, John pressed a shushing finger to his own lips. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest as if in token that would restrain any more outbursts.

**"Harmen weren't a horror, afore. _Jollificearshuns—_ fun and games—it weren't, 'cause it wuz a hard life, but he wuz clever an' shewed me…gret…  _affecshuns_  for my sex, my strength and my fearlessness. He brought me gifts— _rum things_ , I mean, odd things— he take from dusty crates and cupboards from long-dead Cains; he wuz genuine' tender, DeeDee; alettin' me visit yew and the village regularly, remember?"**

**"Yes,"** _Dana agreed,_   **"several times a year, for nearly five years."**

**"That long? Yis. Yew'right! Afore I wuz pregg with babies; he nev'r _mobbed_  me that I come to see yew or go to the village. He dint mind the books I carry home and dint holler that I use scarce candles to read in the night. Yeah, he wuz fair to me, but...different, he WUZ  _rumman_ , a peculiar man. He hoolly yarmed…  _hungered_  for wittles…'nd more. Not just food, yew see, but for a-fukin', for a'venture, for a-hunting. He culdn't get enough of these.**

**"Time he let me go with him, he larn me how to catch the fish and the eels from the shallows. He shew me where the large cats lived in the grasses. Several were his pets. It wuz a new world…a happy time… for a time.**

**"But he change suffun savage ar'er a time, or maybe I just seen better the odd things he do, like when he snatch up a hopp'n toad and bite off its head or rent a fish in two. Un time he attack a bootiful _harnser_ —beautiful heron—with gret viciousness. He wuz  _suffen raw_ —he put his hands around its neck so tight to  _quackle_ it, then ate it right afore me; I shew disgust. After that, he stopped takin' me to hunt with him. That's when happiness became fear.**

**"Als, when I loose so many babies tho I were constant preggs—constantly pregnant—he wuz savage, and b** **ein preggs, moodiness made it hard for me to think. I read in my books women do fare like this, yew know, … on pregnancy. I keep alooking for excuses for him; I think: _he'd had an odd upbringing; he wuz never taught proper manners; his gret body needed wittles._ I keep worryin' about his holly yalm—his intense hunger—and wondered how I culd keep up with that. I knewed he wuz findin' food elsewhere no matter what I cook for mealtimes. I shied from him when he returned with his daily catch for me to clean and cook. I dint want to think wha, and yis,  _who_  he ate in the marshes, yet his traps were catching more than just wildlife. Not knowing wha, I fared it just the same and growed terrible afreard of him.**

 **"He durst to win me back, he brung me books—for my love on readin'. He pluck irises for me in season or give me trinkets. Although after so many years, I knowed he had run out of Cain-family keepsakes to give me. What objects wuz unfamiliar, but I think he had traded for them in the markets. I yet realise he wuz stealing from local farmers…or from his victims** **."**

"Victims!" Sherlock's voice interposed from behind the arm chairs, his hands folded before his mouth, his eyes intense with interest.

Rath turned her head and nodded up at him. She backed up the tape and replayed where he had interrupted her sister's story.

 _Winnie's voice had grown distressed_ **. "Then, I find…his tribe. Run off—erosion yew callit—** **from those awful spring floods in the late-80s, bare their makeshift graves. I see the gnaw marks on their bones. I fare more than terrified, I wuz afreard for myself; for the first time I know what he wuz. I seen those same marks on lamb shanks and drumsticks of the wildfowl we ate. Up 'til then, I be ablamin' the large cats for the animal carcasses in the reeds.**

**"Horror open my eyes. 'Twuz no longer impossible to think the unthinkable about him. Human qualities in the man what pulled me had let go, replaced by that raving beast. And I wuz caught.**

**"I wuld've ran away, I almost do, until I see that wuz not just the marshes atrappin' me. Were I to find my way out, there wuz no place I culd go that he dint hunt me down. And wha if I do the impossible and get away? Wha then? I knowed that everyone in his path, be they shop owners in the village, families with children on farms, tourists in towns, hikers in parks were in danger from this murderous waarmin. And time I once felt I wuz better than them all and owed them nothing, I knowed at heart lettin' him loose to savage them wuz terrible wrong.**

**"So, I stay his wife, but I wuld not be his _prey,_ no! I dussent leave until I kill him. I weren't stupid. I knowed it were risky. He wuz too large, too cunning for me to try 'n take him down; I weren't skilled enough to hunts agin him. Still I had to find  _some_  way, some weakness…then I knowed. Hunger wuz weakness. To kill him I must feed him constant-like—to keep him from eatin' me—and make these meals  _reasty_  and  _fosey_. I hatch my plan for my own survival, but I need supplies and deadly ingredients!**

**"That were not hard to keep crazing him to get me sweets from his raids, flour, sugar, spices, butter, spirits, pesticides…enough to last me years… alon' with books to larn me recipes and concoctions to poison him. Time he wuz gone for days on a raid, I hamper his snares and traps. Yis, I _booby trap_  them to do him harm. He lose atop his ear to a snare that snap unexpected; he crack an ankle time a heavy chain pull away in a wrong direction and he suffer smashed fingers time an iron rod come loose and fall  _acrorst_  his hand. So long as I wuz clever, he never look to me a-knowin' what I do.**

**"That wuz a coward's way, I know, a-hiddin' my 'traps' in the sweetest puddin's, the saltiest sauces, the greasiest meats, and garden vegetables fried in fats and a dash on poisons. Every day, I waz afreard he wuld see what I do and turn on me. Every day, I bloat him with excesses. Every day, I wish his death. That wuz my handiwork what give his many clouts and push him closer to his grave. That or face his _hoolly raw_ , his frightening fury and feel his crushin' jaws on my throat. He shuld die. Yes, I admit murder in my mind an' heart.**  **A-frearing him made me this way. I'm a monster, too, now. Maybe we wuz a good match after all.** **I keep a-feedin' jellies, jams and all kinds on preserves, allus with a pinch on poisonous potions to kill his appetite...an' him.** **I make him _ill a bed_ , sicker and sicker, too sick to attack no more, but not sick enough to lie adown and just plain die. He still walk 'nd talk and order me. "**

 _There was a long pause punctuated by several deep breaths to make up for Winnie's long-winded rant. Then she barked a laugh, cruel with irony_ **. "To think it wuld take so long to murder the brute! Still not dun, yit."**

**888**

Dr. Rath shut off the recording. "That finished Winnie's narrative. It was her last good day. After that she never rallied. Eight days later, I lost her for good."

888***888


	10. Progress

 

888**888

Winnie's recorded account was disturbing even for Dr. Dana Rath who had heard it before. Although her eyes welled with tears, she quickly regained her composure. Excusing herself to resume rounds, she bid goodbye to the men and disappeared down the hall.

However, hearing it for the first time was a decidedly souring experience for Detective Inspector Gareth Bane. Bane's face grew paler behind his drooping grey moustache. His eyes had become introspective, brooding, as if an old wound had been reopened.

Where John felt sympathy for the shocked DI, Sherlock understood Bane's reaction. For the first time he could grasp it not just intellectually but on an emotional level. This was due to his own experience with disturbing revelations not so long ago that drew up raw emotions. While Sherlock conceded there were some painful parallels with his childhood—learning the truth about Victor and Eurus had been traumatizing—this was neither the time nor place to dwell on strangling sentiments about lost affections.  _"_ _Work was the best antidote to sorrow,"_ Sherlock had once told Mrs. Hudson after Mary had died. Sherlock assumed the same should be true for Bane. To push past the emotional context, the DI needed to focus on the larger scheme—going to Mearcstapa—and Sherlock decided to lend his assistance with all the delicacy of a sledge hammer.

"You should have no objection, Bane, to our collaborating with you," Sherlock asserted, barely able to contain his eagerness, "on your little expedition to the Cain's home, especially since my assistance has furthered your investigation."

Sherlock's audacious insertion into the Cain investigation, his overbearing enthusiasm, and his word choices triggered Bane. He turned with a snarl on Sherlock."This is no  _little_  expedition, Mr. 'Olmes, just 'cause it's not in London!" While earlier, Sherlock's insights and perceptions about Rath had annoyed Bane, especially as he had missed them entirely, now he was livid with Sherlock's bald presumptions and the aspersions he was casting on the effectiveness of the Constabulary. Despite Sherlock's helpful tip about Harmen G. Cain, the DI was neither grateful nor interested in having Sherlock take Winnie's case any further.

"This's a 'igh-risk campaign, and the Tactical Support Team I've assembled 'as drilled for years for this kind o' recovery mission in the Fens," Bane continued, resorting to tiresome and specious reasons to deny them access, "We expect to encounter an arsenal of defensive weapons upon infiltratin' the bog. You 'eard Bebe. 'E built traps all around… Your lack of trainin' disqualifies you both, and I'm not stakin' our success on two unknowns. It's too dangerous."

The Detective Inspector's outright dismissal was galling. Sherlock had fully expected to be granted the professional courtesy permitting John and him to accompany Bane's people on the first wave of maneuvers. They both had overheard Bane on his mobile speaking with the station, getting the superintendent to agree to launch a TST to penetrate Mearcstapa. They knew the report-time for the armed police officers under Bane's command would be the next morning at 0500 hours, two hours before sunrise. Bane was giving all his mission teams time to assemble and be briefed before they embarked so they could maximize daylight in what might be a multi-day operation.

Whether Bane spoke the full truth about the risks remained to be seen. It was possible the DI was exaggerating the perils and importance of such a mission. Sherlock had encountered this countless times with full-of-himself authorities like Bane. More often it had to do with the need to bolster someone's ego rather than with actual hazards.

"Lack of training, you say?" Sherlock replied with a smug snort. "My two years as an undercover operative in eastern Europe aside, Dr. Watson has had years of experience serving the British Army as a doctor—a surgeon in Afghanistan—and a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. A trained triage surgeon would be a complement to your ranks in this otherwise noncombatant operation, no?"

"No…" Bane replied stubbornly. "We didn't ask for your services, Mr. 'Olmes, and we're perfectly capable of 'andlin' it without you." He gave Sherlock an acid look. "Just when we're ready to close on this case, you show up. 'Avin' your name associated with this investigation makes it look like you solved it. We'll work it ourselves, glad to be able to say afterwards that this Constabulary doesn't require outside 'elp from any _famous_  detective. I'd say your presence 'ere is rather inconvenient."

To John, Bane's remarks were not merely deterrents to keep outsiders away, they smacked of professional jealousy. To Sherlock, they screamed rank stupidity.

"Bebe told you 'ow she'd dunnit," the DI continued. "You've got what you came for. That should be all you need. Time to turn back."

The Fenshire District Hospital corridor was not a suitable location for an ongoing dispute, so the three men reconvened in the carpark where John found himself the intermediary, standing between two increasingly irritated detectives.

The change of venue, however, proved a good move. Within the confining hospital, Bane had been adamant against extending any kind of professional courtesy to Sherlock and John, but outside—where smoking was permitted—Bane had time to reconsider John's army career; his resolve softened. He conceded the value in having an ex-army surgeon volunteer for the maneuver. The snag arose when John would not participate without his partner.

"Okay, okay, Mr. 'Olmes, Dr. Watson. I will grant you 'official' consultant status to participate in the forensic detail," Bane tamped a near-empty pack of cigarettes, "on the condition that you work in complete collaboration with my police team." He removed a fag with his teeth and lips and swung a lighter to the cigarette's tip.

The rush of nicotine may have taken the edge off the DI, but along with Bane's authoritarian posturing, it only rekindled Sherlock's nicotine-deprived temper. John placed a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm, met the smoldering anger in his incandescent eyes and waited until Sherlock nodded grudging concession. "We'll cooperate," John stated calmly. "We've worked closely with the Met under similar restrictions."

"Fine," Bane exhaled in blue smoke, "Includin' you in this operation into Mearcstapa means you," Bane stabbed a stubby finger at Sherlock, "work within predetermined parameters—"

"—which are?" Sherlock countered in a tight voice.

"My forensic science investigators search the missin'-persons' angle to link Cain to the crimes of serial murder," Bane took another drag, "…and I'll let you two gather evidence to prove or refute Bebe's confession."

John arched his eyebrows and swiveled toward Sherlock for approval. "No arguments there," he replied for them both.

"There's more," Bane exhaled smoke through his nose. "I can't dismiss Bebe's testimony. I 'eard 'er claim to 'ave 'murdered' 'er 'usband. Yeah, I know, it took decades… poisonin' Cain's food … layin' traps for 'im.. Still, keep in mind this's a police investigation, not a publicity stunt to advance your reputation. Your blogged exploits might be pop'lar with some in the parish Constabulary, but I'm not one of 'em. Whatever samples you collect belong to the police _._ "

"My work enhances the police's investigation," the chill in Sherlock voice gave John the shivers and the concern that a full-blown tantrum might be imminent. "I do not withhold the results of my lab analysis for personal gain."

" _Your_  lab analysis? No, no, no," Bane shook his head, took another deep drag and tapped the ashes onto the ground. "You're just goin' to collect the evidence. All analysis work must be conducted through _my_  police lab with  _my_  FSI teams."

Sherlock inhaled in disgust, catching a whiff of DI's cigarette smoke in the process. Winnie Cain's guilt or innocence were immaterial—she would never stand in the dock even if it could be proven she had murdered her husband. Sherlock found it illustrative of the lumbering nature of the police mind that Bane did not see this truth. Infuriated by Bane's control issues, he nearly launched into a string of insulting deductions about the man's private life and poor health, except the painful reminder of his overweening pride— _Norbury!_ —held his tongue. Since the disastrous encounter with the stenographer Vivian Norbury, it was the byword to check his hubris. This vow to refrain from verbal provocations was being sorely tested by Bane's intransigence. Tempering his anger with cold logic, he swallowed his disappointment and resentment and distanced himself from his own motives. And though it ran counter to his every inclination, Sherlock rationalized that he could walk away from this investigation.

It was just that Winnie's case had drawn Sherlock's curiosity precisely because it had potential for fascinating forensic analyses. What he would find in the lab was the only part of this investigation that held Sherlock's interest. He had not admitted even to John how thoroughly he had been looking forward to testing the poisons and toxins he expected to recover from this field operation.

But John understood. He darted a conspiratorial " _let-me-get-this"_  glance at Sherlock before turning to Bane with his disarming Watson grin—the deceptively pleasant one that veiled his irritation. "Sorry? Did I hear you correctly? Have your forensic labs  _never_  sent samples out for further analysis?"

Bane hesitated in mid puff, "…sometimes."

John shook his head and marshaled his argument.

Sherlock stepped back to enjoy the fireworks.

"Huh!" John leveled his gaze at Bane and pretended to be confused, "You're refusing an offer for in-depth analysis from a world-famous expert because? Let me guess…because  _you_ believe your local, overworked and understaffed lab can do the work better or more expediently… is that it?" There was no mistaking the sarcasm beneath his feigned politeness. "I find that strange," John confided with a shrug and offered the DI a bared-teeth smile. "I imagine your district has money to burn on overtime, then?"

Bane narrowed his eyes. "We do just the same as any parish Constabulary in the north. We're not the Met, but we manage…I'd say our operatin' 'xpenses don't concern you…"

"Yes. You're right. They don't. I get it. You do your best. You have integrity. …," John sighed but his facial expression was slipping from congenial to a pitbull frown. "What I don't  _bloody_  get is why you question the integrity and expertise of my friend—who has earned every one of his accolades, by the way, and some the public will never know about? So, if he follows the requisite chain of evidence, which no one does better, there's got to be a good reason—another reason—for you to refuse his forensic expertise, yes? Or is there?" Bristling now with indignation John didn't give Bane time to reply, "Actually, I don't think you have one, not a professional one, anyway!"

The DI took another deep drag in lieu of an answer.

Bane's sustained silence left John room to press on. "We can agree that a wise commander," John granted Bane the benefit of the doubt, "knows when to step back and assign his best men to do what they are trained to do. Sherlock Holmes is the best. This is not just in my opinion, but the world's. And, as the official forensic consultant for the Home Office and the Met, he has access to forensic labs used by MI5. Getting validation from a nationally renowned expert could only help your investigation."

The nicotine-fix may have worked its magic in getting Bane to agree with John's argument, because he was coming round. "Some samples then, not all," he insisted.

"Some, but the choice of samples is at my discretion," Sherlock stated in a neutral voice.

"Only some?" John pulled a bewildered face at Bane, but it was a setup in anticipation of the only remaining objection Bane might have, "at  _his_ fees?"

"—His  _fees_?" Bane coughed on a mistimed inhale.

John cracked a sassy grin and glanced at Sherlock—there was a glint of amusement in the detective's eyes encouraging him to continue. "I still don't know how he does it, but Sherlock Holmes," John stated proudly, "isn't interested in financial compensation. There is no fee. On just a pecuniary basis, even your County's Head of Finance should have no objections to his assistance."

888

It was a hard-fought battle, but they settled. Bane would make the arrangements with the specialized police teams to include Sherlock and John in the march to Cain's home deep in the marshes. Before he left, the DI gave them directions to a rendezvous point and reminded them to be prompt.

_"Brilliant_ , John!" Sherlock crowed and gave a joyful leap once the DI had motored off and out of sight.

Although Sherlock was elated by their success in joining the next day's expedition, John's euphoria wore off immediately upon realizing what he had done. He had been a thoughtless father. He had completely forgotten his daughter—as if Rosie never existed—and had argued to extend their one-day excursion. Even though Sherlock had planned for a possible overnight stay, John had hoped one day was all they needed and regretted letting his sense of adventure totally carry him away. In his head he could hear Mary saying, " _Nice one, John! No thoughts about Rosie, then?"_ John grimaced, "Sherlock—

"We have the rest of today to dig through the news archives and check police reports in Hunstanton about pets and livestock mutilations," Sherlock's spirits were soaring, his eyes bright in anticipation and he spun around several times with exuberance. "We can study charts and maps tonight—overnight lodgings shouldn't be a problem—and acquaint ourselves for tomorrow's operation from Holme Post into—"

"— _Sherlock!"_  John's sharp tone stopped the detective from sashaying all the way to John's Audi.

"What now, John?" Exasperated, Sherlock swung round with a frown.

Now that he finally had Sherlock's attention, John became evasive. Avoiding eye contact he fetched his car keys from his jacket pocket and clicked the key fob at a distance to unlock the doors, but he made no move to go to the car; doubts immobilized him. "Hmmm. Seriously," he began, studying his feet, "why are we pursuing this? Bane's not wrong. Don't we know enough to tick this box off as 'solved?' It's a true horror story: the husband was some kind of maniac. He ate people. She was held in captivity. Rather than be eaten herself, she tried feeding him to death… nearly succeeded, case closed. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic—Winnie's chilling account is heart wrenching—but the sooner we can get away from this depravity, the better. Maybe we should head back tonight."

Jolted by this turnabout, Sherlock focused on his friend. He saw frustration in John's furrowed brow and read apprehension in his pursed lips. To stay and investigate had so clearly been John's desire moments ago when he strong-armed Bane. What had changed?

"Where's our first-hand evidence, John?" Sherlock was more surprised than annoyed. "All we have are the accounts—from albeit reliable second-hand sources—but until we collect samples from the actual crime scene, we don't know the degree of truth!"

"So, it's a curiosity thing. You're curious."

"Aren't you?"

"Yes, of course, but… well…" John trailed.

Sherlock stared at his friend **,**  puzzled and at a loss as to how to proceed. "Is it the danger element...? I think we can discount that, given the strength and numbers that are going to be involved, John. Bane is likely marking his territory by puffing up his importance and the imagined perils of the investigation."

"Maybe. Or are we so caught up in this little adventure of ours, we're overlooking this clear and present danger in anticipation of visiting the so-called crime scene?"

Sherlock was rendered silent by John's question. John waited for a reply that was not immediately forthcoming.

"The unknown makes it more of an adventure, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock met John's patience with forced levity and a false-bravado smile.

John shook his downcast head, finally getting to the real reason for his change of heart. "I can't do it. I can't do  _this,_ anyway, Sherlock, not like before..." he admitted softly, "…as much as I want to. Rosie has to come first, not out of obligation, but because I  _love_  her." His lower lip quivered "The sad thing is that when I was arguing with Bane, I completely  _forgot_  about her. How pathetic is that? She has a  _bloody_ selfish bastard for a father."

_Parenting: an unfathomable mix of unconditional love with guilt and obligation!_ Sherlock thought. It was both polarizing and paralyzing John. Grasping his friend's dilemma, Sherlock tried his best to  _feel_  on some level what John was experiencing, although it was well beyond him. But no matter what the detective wanted for them both, the decision to return to his daughter and resume the responsibility of parenting was John's.

"Selfish? No. Bastard?" Sherlock raked the gravel in the drive with his shoe and cleared his throat. "Never, and that talk would earn its speaker a hook to the jaw, but I see, John. Of course...return tonight, by all means. It's your call."

"Really?" John gave his friend a confused glance. He had not expected Sherlock to be reasonable. "What about you?"

"My returning with you to London tonight, especially as it takes three hours one way, is impractical. I also question whether you can be fresh for a 5.00 a.m. start time tomorrow in Holme National Reserve if you have to leave London at 2 a.m. I'll make other arrangements—I hear The Bull in Hunstanton has comfortable quarters—and get to the police rendezvous at the appointed hour." Sherlock stared at the hospital portico with narrowed eyes, but his neutral tone did not fool John. The detective was obviously disappointed.

"Hell!" John stomped on the ground and mulled balancing Rosie's needs with his desire to help Sherlock. "You did say this schedule of yours allowed for an overnight stay…"

"Two," Sherlock strolled off toward the Audi with hands clasped behind his back, "I built  _two_  overnights into the plan and got all parties to agree…of course, we were to keep them apprised…." Keeping ahead of his friend so as not to influence John with either a grin or grimace, Sherlock repeated over his shoulder, "It's your call, John."

"My call!" John's voice brightened. The second time he heard Sherlock's hint, it stuck. "I'll ring Erika…apprise her of our status."

"Good decision," Sherlock peered over the car's roof as John approached the driver's side. "How is it, John, that you can persuade an insufferably boorish detective inspector to relent in  _our_  favor but you cannot convince yourself to entrust your twenty-month-old to a reliable childminding network? Does that paradox not seem odd to you?"

"No. Not odd," John defended with a lopsided grin and opened the driver's side door, "I'm told it's normal."

88**88

When she heard her father's voice Rosie gurgled delighted gibberish into the phone, allaying John's fears. Mimicking speech with conversational modulations, she babbled the words — _birdie, banana, cheese, kitty,_  and  _park_ —in a jumbled mix expecting to be understood. Her "Dada byebyes" cued Erika to catch the phone before it dropped to the floor as the toddler wandered off.

"You see, Dr. Watson. All is well," Erika giggled. "Rosie's has asked for you, but now she's...content and off she goes to other things. Mrs. Hudson will come for afternoon tea and after dinner, bath and bedtime as usual." The childminder sounded confident and capable which did much to assure John that all was well. "Our routine is good... smooth. And tomorrow, we make several play dates …"

"Okay, Erika. Ring me if anything… _ANYTHING_ …is amiss. You understand?"

"Will do."

Relieved, John swallowed down his residual worry. "I'll ring back at her bedtime so I can say goodnight."

"Yes! She'll love that."

"And … Erika,...thank you."

"No worries, please! Everything's under control."

When he rang off, John felt both certain that Rosie was being well-cared for and somewhat guiltier for  _enjoying_  his liberation.

88**88

Sherlock came back to the car with two coffees, sandwiches and local maps. John did not wonder at the timing which coincided with him ringing off. The detective had not only suggested they stop at the mart off A149 for provisions when they were only halfway to Hunstanton but told John to wait in the car while he shopped, making it perfectly clear that John should ring home.

"Well?" Sherlock said when he climbed back into the car.

"All good," John smiled and accepted the chicken-salad sandwich Sherlock offered him. He suddenly had an appetite.

Motoring through the fenlands was akin to driving through a soggy cloud. The beading on the windscreen forced John to keep the fog lights on and the wipers running. A conscientious driver on a sunny day, John was more strict now about keeping his eyes front to compensate for the poor visibility as he focused on the roadway's vanishing act.

Whenever the haze parted, they caught mid-day vistas of flat farmlands and tidy rows of recently planted winter wheat in the scored black earth. Then the view would hide behind a veil of vapor as if a concealing curtain had been drawn to cover the secrets of the rural communities. Those long patches of fog would linger for stretches and then suddenly dissipate, revealing the occasional cottage flanked by mature, misshapen oaks. Sparse and battered by time and coastal turbulence, these hearty trees dotted the landscape in sharp contrast with the virtually unbroken horizon line. Then once again, this discovery of life and inhabitants was swallowed by a jealous fog, forbidding trespass.

Since they had left the mart, Sherlock had preoccupied himself with internet searches on his smartphone, occasionally sipping his coffee and taking a bite of his fried-fish sandwich. They had traveled nearly twenty minutes in mutual silence when he momentarily broke free of his concentration with an offhand comment, "What you did back there, John," he said without looking up from his mobile, "defending m—… in my defense... was… um...good. Very good. Also that 'wise-commander-steps-back' bit...was...impressive." Sherlock snorted a soft chuckle. "...Not saying you have a current commander, but still, the  _best_  man handled it brilliantly," Although Sherlock again retreated into his internet searches, his amused smile lingered for quite a while.

Savoring Sherlock's rare praise in silence, John smiled, too.  _You're welcome._  Despite the conditions and terms Bane had set, Sherlock was not only satisfied, he was appreciative.  _Yes. It was all good._

88**88


	11. Clarity

 

 

888***888

Motoring through the sleeping village of Thornham, the Audi moved slowly. Its headlamps cut through the swirling grey mists over the winding road in the predawn inkinesss. At 04.35 it was still nearly two and a half hours before sunrise and two hours before morning civil twilight. Though they were close, John was not so confident they would make the rendezvous point by 0500 hours due to the difficult visibility.

The thick fog and the darkness were also frustrating to the man who lived by observation. Sherlock became fidgety with their slow progress, but rather than complain, he whipped open the local map for a fifth time in as many minutes.

"According to this," Sherlock spread the tabloid-sized page across his lap and tilted it under the interior car light, "the nature reserve is probably half a kilometer from here off Staithe Lane—."

"—Straithe Lane was where Cain was found unconscious. According to Dr. Rath, Winnie was spotted and picked up by a passing driver there, too," John recalled, adding admiringly, "She was some spitfire!"

"Indeed, she was a rarity, suited to be his adversary, considering how she turned the tables on Cain, but…" Despite agreeing with John, Sherlock had been mentally poking holes through the flimsy fabric of what Dr. Rath had presumed was a daring escape, "Winnie never explained how she passed unscathed through the snares and traps and achieved her freedom. Could she have cleverly sprung the traps that barricaded the land routes or managed to take a boat through the waterways? Maybe. The woman was delirious and dehydrated at the time of her admission to hospital. While it's possible her exertions to escape caused those symptoms, it's also possible she needed some assistance to get out. Cain may have let her go. It's likely he may even have helped her. All angles of this question must be examined."

John thought about this. "Why would he let her go? Why not just—?"

"—kill her?...Like we presume he did to his family? After reading the newspaper articles and sorting through the police archives yesterday, we might also presume he's responsible for the many missing animals and pets. However, never underestimate the power of emotion, John, even among those not on the side of angels," Sherlock replied more to himself than to his friend. "I don't doubt that some sentiment was involved, preventing him from killing her outright. The combination of her indomitable spirit and his waning strength—likely that is what kept him from raiding for seventeen years—may have worked in her favor, too. Whatever the reasons, it appears he gave in to her demand to be returned to her kind to die."

John drove in thoughtful silence.  _To die with my kind,_ Winnie had told her half-sister. This statement, although not on the recording they had listened to, had been especially illuminating when Dr. Rath had recounted it to Sherlock and John. It implied that Cain was not …human? Not one of Winnie's kind, certainly, but what was Harmen G. Cain if not human? Was there something about Cain's strange physique that could explain his abhorrent behavior?

"You know, John," Sherlock commented as if he were listening to John's thought, "while there are a wide variety of theories as to the causes for deviant behavior, you need not consider the ones that have been largely discredited."

"You mean the theory that people with certain physical characteristics or deformities are born to be criminals?"

"Cesare Lombroso's theory that such individuals are throwbacks to primitive man due to their large ears, lack of facial symmetry, twisted nose, and prominent cheekbones _,_  to name a few—yes, it's TOTAL rubbish! What do you expect from someone theorizing in the late 1800s?"

"What about the three body types: ectomorphs, endomorphs and mesomorphs?—" John enjoyed testing the thoroughness of the library in Sherlock's Mind Palace.

"—That the strong muscular type—the mesomorphs—are most likely to have deviant behaviors and be most prone to criminal activity? William Sheldon's  _Theory of Body Types_  is decidedly bunk! And you needn't bring up the extra Y chromosome theory, suggesting that the super male, due to his XYY chromosomal makeup, is compelled to commit crimes. Unproven and utter nonsense!"

"I know. I agree with you, but then tell me, what do you think is the explanation for Cain's abnormal—?"

"—WAIT, we're close!" Sherlock interrupted with an upraised warning hand, his sharp eyes peering through the windscreen where the fog lights poked holes in the darkness. "There should be an unnamed road coming up," he stabbed the map with one index finger and used the other to point the way, "HERE! GO LEFT!"

"Right!" John agreed, cutting such a sharp left that the tyres kicked up hardscrabble from a nearly invisible dirt road.

"I say left, you say right, but you go left," Sherlock straightened himself, having been shoved sharply right by the irresistible force of inertia, "Not only do you exhibit contradictory behavior," he teased, "but recklessness as well. I suspect, John, this can be explained by your…ecto-…no,  _endo_ morph body type and your excessively large ears."

"Large ears! Need them to hear the deplorable driving directions from a prominently cheekboned ectomorph!" John huffed with feigned indignation as he gripped the drive wheel tighter. The Audi bumped along the uneven surface of the gravelly road that snaked a short way before being consumed by the black fog. "Really, Sherlock, a bit more warning would be helpful next time. And shut off the  _damn_  interior light; its reflection is making it so  _bloody_  hard to see! Is GPS reception unreliable, then?"

The half-smile prompted by John's sass lingered on Sherlock's face as he switched off the car light. "Off grid for GPS, I'm afraid. We must rely on our own resourcefulness and sense of direction, as even your Audi's lost its directional indicator. We're in rural parts, near several national seashore reserves, famed for 'their handsome birches and tall grasses' according to the website, but poor connectivity. It's wise to rely on the old standby—printed charts and maps; besides, they don't lose their charge."

"Do we really know if we're on the right road? Old standbys like these may be outdated," John countered, increasingly irritated by the relentless mist and the predawn darkness.

"Ah!" Sherlock whipped out his pocket torch and noisily crumpled the map to check the print date on the reverse side. "Sorry to disappoint! This map is current."

John grinned at the playful smirk in Sherlock's voice, "So we could be lost and we might not know until dawn."

"Follow this road. It's the safe bet."

"...follow? Easier said than done. Have you noticed it's  _bloody_  pitch ahead!" John's thoughts drifted to another gnawing concern. "Speaking of safe. If we're truly storming the barricades of a master trapper or for that matter the booby-trapped snares reset by his wife, what assurances do we have that it's safe to proceed by land or by water? _ **"**_

"Since Bane believes the dangers are real—by no means will I belittle any wise precautions, John—the Tactical Support Team he has called will address safe access into Mearcstapa both by land and marine routes. Have you not heard me say that it's stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it's close upon you?"

"Yeah, but you've been known to take some terrible risks…" John muttered before clamping his mouth shut.

Sherlock dared not mention the name Norbury in John's presence nor share that in Mary's memory he had been tempering his rash actions. "John," he began, "you must know, I've been working on ….being," he struggled to finish and borrowed words John had once used, "who you  _thought_  I was—"

John gripped the drive wheel tighter and with his eyes forward nodded, "...and  _trust_  you can be."

_Trust!_  It was the cement in their friendship. Restoring the trust that existed before Sherlock faked his death for two years and failed in his vow to protect Mary had taken some doing, but they both had been willing to give it a go and their progress had been steady. John's reply was proof of that.

"Your point about safety is well taken, John. Of course, to avoid unnecessary risks, we must proceed with extreme caution," Sherlock agreed. "However, if both Mr. and Mrs. Cain were too ill and neglected to reset their defenses, there is great probability that many of the devices have already failed with time. Still, although the Wild Man no longer haunts the Fens, his legacy for mayhem must and will be taken seriously."

"And you're confident in the police teams?" John checked, "That Bane's TST will be thorough and know what they're doing?"

"To a point, as Bane told us earlier, they have a long history with Cain and have been training for such a recovery operation. I will certainly rely on their knowledge of the region's waterways and marshland, but still, you and I must keep our eyes open," Sherlock' said in complete seriousness before falling into a sobering silence that neither seemed willing to break.

After several minutes, Sherlock redirected the conversation, "I'm sure, John, a day in the country will be invaluable to you. Admit it. This is a nice jaunt on a foggy November morning, and your diary is cleared of all responsibilities—"

"—Responsibilities to one's child are NEVER truly cleared, even if distracted fathers have memory lapses…" There was an edge in John's voice. Yesterday's brief oversight had John waking guilt-ridden from a dream about Rosie. The morning's challenging drive, along with aspects of this case—Cain's cannibalism and Winnie's captivity—were hardly uplifting. "Wouldn't use the word 'nice.'"

"It has long been my belief, John, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside. However, this venture outside of London," Sherlock reiterated, "is a nice opportunity to stretch our legs and our minds. Foraging through the Fens, probing its darkest corners and unearthing data specifically to establish why Harmen Grendel Cain 'deserved to die' and how Winnie did him in... okay, it's not Christmas, but it's an occasion to commemorate nevertheless."

John smiled in spite of himself. To shake off his misgivings about his paternal ineptitude, he assisted in Sherlock's mood-lifting effort by raising a tangential topic, "Harmen-Grendel-Cain. What a name! It couldn't sound more diabolical. Have you noticed the connections? If memory serves, there was a serial killer in Germany, Fritz Haarmann, known as the  _Butcher of Hanover_  for dismembering his victims. By the way, he was also called the  _Vampire of Hanover_  because he bit into, sometimes through his victims' throats … As a snitch for the police force, who was unaware of his deviancy, Haarmann got away with his crimes for a long time. He even used his affiliation with the police to lure and kill boys and young men."

Sherlock threw John an astonished look. "Storytime at the Watson's a bit too tame? So you've taken up sensational crime histories?"

"Medical journals have far worse; they just mask it behind clinical jargon," John shot back with a controlled grin. "Anyway, I think's its coincidence—oh, yeah, not a good word. How about curious? —that Harmen GRENDEL Cain who lives in the Fens has similarities to the legendary monster Grendel who inhabited the fens and marshlands? Curious, too, that the monster was called the 'son of the Cain,' named after the murderous brother of Genesis fame. You know the legend of  _Beowulf_. You probably read it in secondary school?"

"If I had, I've deleted it."

John sucked a breath and flexed his fingers as they curled around the drive wheel. "Do you REALLY delete these things or do you just like telling people that, so they don't bother you further about stuff that doesn't interest you?"

"The 'stuff' doesn't interest me, which is why I delete it. I will not clutter up my Mind Palace with trivia…" Sherlock continued with unmistakable frustration in his voice, "How many times must I tell you this, John?"

"Dunno. I've deleted it," John quipped and heard a grunt from his companion. "But seriously, Sherlock," John's tone shifted in kind, "With brainpower like yours, I don't understand how you can really delete things you've learned. Memory stores and retrieves information, so maybe what you are doing is suppressing unessential memories, repressing them, but actually forgetting them? I find that hard to believe. On the other hand, traumatic amnesia explains why you would not remember Eurus…Victor. But everything you thought you had forgotten about your childhood came rushing back…you hadn't really deleted that either."

"Those lost memories were before—" Sherlock stopped speaking and glanced out his window at the impenetrable cocoon of mist that encased the car and which obliterated any view of the scenery. Concealing his face was unnecessary; John had not taken his eyes off the challenging winding road, but the detective's baritone had become rough, "—before I had developed control over what I choose to keep and discard."

It had not yet been a year since Sherlock had learned the dark secrets of his past. His ability to forget his sister completely had unnerved him; that he had substituted a dog, Redbeard, for his best friend, Victor, was also distressing. The conflict with Eurus had opened those revelations, compelling Sherlock to feel pity for her and seek resolutions for his sister's jealousy—by playing with her as she had always wanted, even if it were merely on the violin.

Sherlock stayed silent. Secrets and lies had caused crushing misunderstandings and tragic mistakes in his shared past with John Watson, so Sherlock had made a vow going forward to give John the truth, especially if John asked. Now, in his roundabout way, John was probing, asking for an explanation about this painful history. Feeling raw and uncertain, Sherlock cleared his throat and continued. "Those were real, first-hand experiences. Of course they were indelible, but pushing them deep and out of reach was more of… an emotional response of a fainthearted and weak-minded child…"

"I disagree," John responded softly, regretting he had brought it up. The dense mist was playing hide and seek with the road, so John could not spare a mollifying glance toward his friend. "It was traumatizing and you found a unique if not an ingenious way of handling it. Anyway, wasn't it you who told me, ' _as terrible as it is_ , _from time to time, that we might all just be human.'"_  John swallowed hard. As he maneuvered the vehicle around a rut in the road that appeared several feet ahead, he diverted the uncomfortable conversation. "However, when it comes to keeping 'unimportant' bits of information—like the solar system, friends' first names, how to make an omelet, historical Brit lit—you can't really expect me to believe—"

"You've just said 'unimportant!'" Sherlock grinned in triumph. "My reasoning precisely! Detailed knowledge about the solar system is readily accessible by Internet, knowing I can trust my friends—whatever their first names—is what is of primary importance, omelets are overrated and don't deserve any special attention, so you see, I will not crowd my memory with superfluous information. And what possible need could I have for historical British literature, next to appearing on some crap-telly game show?"

"Yeah. I know. That's what you say, but still,  _Beowulf_? There's a monster who attacks the warriors sleeping in the Hall? I would think the gore and the violence of the story would have etched a memory in that brain of yours. I could imagine your parents, even Mycroft, reading it to you while you were still in nursery. No? It doesn't ring a bell? This Grendel fiend apparently tore the warriors apart, limb by limb and ate them."

"Gruesome legends aside, we are embarking on an investigation of attempted homicide, John," Sherlock explained pedantically.

"...that shares some elements of that mysterious story" John rebutted, "if we believe Winnie's account that he was a cannibal."

"It's a mistake to confuse strangeness with mystery, however, I will say this domestic has grotesque elements that lend a bit of mystery to it."

"But you have no knowledge of  _Beowulf_?" John muttered more to himself than for Sherlock's benefit. Confounded by the lapse in Sherlock's basic knowledge, John shrugged off his incredulity and rolled the fatigue from his shoulders. Focusing as best he could on the dirt road ahead, he peered through the windscreen into the vaporous darkness, feeling more than seeing the bumps.

They were both silent for several minutes when Sherlock casually remarked. "Besides, John, historians believe  _Beowulf_  took place in Denmark. Perhaps at a site twenty-three miles west of modern Copenhagen in Lejre, that is if the archaeologists in Denmark have actually excavated the remains of what they believe is the sixth-century great dining hall described in the epic poem. Perhaps you can't quite see in this fog, but we are in Norfolk, a far cry from Lejre."

John's lower jaw dropped and he snorted a laugh. "I knew it!"

Sherlock flicked a satisfied smile at his friend and switching on his torch looked down at the map yet again.

" _Jes-_ us! What's that?" John shouted, turning the wheel sharply to his left and braking abruptly. Despite the suddenness of his alarm, his lightning reflexes averted impact. "Did you see that? It .. _something_ … was in the road." He stopped the car but left it running.

As much as he wished he had, Sherlock had not seen what John believed he had. He shook his head. "Describe it."

John opened the car door to utter darkness, the damp chilly air curling around him like a cloak as he climbed out. He snapped on his phone's torchlight and hurried back toward the location in the road with Sherlock beside him. Holding his own torch aloft, the detective's eyes scoured the earth for footprints when they reached the spot where John had swerved to avoid a collision.

"Some kind of animal…not like a squirrel or rabbit…a large animal… crossed the road in front of me …over here," John pointed in the general direction.

"Dog-sized? Sheep-sized? Cow?" Sherlock suggested despite knowing that John would not have been upset by a farm animal wandering in the road.

John scratched his head. "Now, I'm not sure. It was...a large...,"

"Cat...wildcat," Sherlock pointed. In the beam of his torch, fresh panther prints impressed the moist soil. Meeting John's dismayed stare, Sherlock hooted with delight, "The Fen Tiger.  _Oh!_  Things are falling into place, John!"

88**88

 

* * *

Nods to ACD for quotes about countryside vs London ( _Sherlock Holmes in The Copper Beeches)_  and the paraphrased 'strangeness/mystery' quote from  _A Study in Scarlet._


	12. In Camp

888**888

"Where's that  _bloody_ carpark?"

Nearly hitting a wildcat with his car had John on edge and alert for any more wandering wildlife, but the poor visibility was igniting his temper. "Bane told us it's near Holme Next to the Sea, right?" he grumbled as he guided the car on the bumpy surface of the dirt road. "It should be close by now, but it's impossible to see anything until we're right on top of it—including a Fen Tiger."

John's whingeing was not without good reason. Even Sherlock's keen eyesight had been rendered nearly useless by the predawn darkness and the thick mist. The weak November sun would not rise yet for hours and there was no guarantee that it could burn off the tenacious fog.

"Look, John!" A pale flickering ahead within the swirling dark fog caught Sherlock's eye. Studying harder, he barely discerned a commotion of lights and told his already cautious driver to coast in that direction. As they pulled closer they saw more clearly the roadblock of police vehicles with their headlamps cutting cylindrical beams through the darkness and their blue roof lights swirling. There were many armed response vehicles, several forensic department lorries, and a few ambulances. Such a large deployment unmistakably indicated that their mission was something more treacherous than an adventurous romp in the country. Bane had warned them.

"What do you make of all this?" John tossed a puzzled look at his friend before returning to the view through the windscreen. He pulled the Audi up to the reflective zebra-striped sawhorse to await clearance to proceed. "Still think Bane had been all puffed up about his so-called 'dangerous' mission?"

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, uncertain about what he should say. By appearances, it was disquieting. The last thing he had intended was to put Rosie's sole-surviving parent in jeopardy. The purpose of  _The John Experiment_  was to prove that John and he could have in-the-field investigations without unnecessary risks. Success in this simple outing would predicate future opportunities for them both. However, John's safety was paramount, and while the ex-army surgeon's war experience had more than adequately prepared him for dangerous missions, the intense police response could not be ignored. Sherlock was forced to reconsider the options.

Aborting their investigation, turning around, and together going back to London was their first option. That would be the most disappointing.

This second option seemed the most practical in light of yesterday's disclosures. Sherlock would admit to John that the potential for danger was greater than they had originally thought. Reminding the protective father about his responsibility to Rosie, he'd recommend John return to London—alone. Sherlock would remain with Bane's Task Force to gather the evidence he needed. Although the old John would never have backed off, this new John had more to consider.

And there was a third option…

"John, I suspect this may be a bit more than…," Sherlock broke off, listened briefly to the purr of the idling motor, and tried again, "…This is not the low-risk enterprise I had expected—"

"—No. It's not," John countered; all signs of his irritation had vanished and a half-smile pulled his cheek, "It's better."

"But, John, what about—?" Sherlock's protest was genuine.

"—I know what I said," John kept his eyes forward, not returning his friend's scrutiny. "It may seem like a contradiction and that I'm rationalizing—okay, yeah, it's a contradiction and I'm rationalizing—but Rosie's safe at home and I'm here—right now—in a place where I can be of help as a doctor. I feel more useful than...," John swallowed what he almost said, "...than..than how I've felt in a long while...useful in a different way, really. This may not make sense to you, but I _need_  this."

"It makes perfect sense to me, John."

John met Sherlock's laser stare without flinching. "Besides, Sherlock, it looks like this 'military' operation is more than ready for the challenge. Our leg of the operation will take merely a few hours and then we head home, right?"

Sherlock nodded, "But are you sure?"

"Very."

 _Third option, then_.

Pleased with John's decision, Sherlock grinned, "You're right that this response team is well equipped for an active threat. I think Bane was wise not to underestimate how accomplished survivalists might utilize the resources at hand. We don't yet know if the entrapment devices are primitive or sophisticated. Nor will it matter if it does serious bodily harm. Spotting the traps and snares set by a savvy outdoorsman—or woman for that matter—will be our most significant challenge and vigilance our greatest defense."

"No argument there," John added, feeling an excited flutter in his gut at the site of the small 'army' of police units. "DI Bane marshalled the task force as promised. Wonder if he's here yet. I expect he'll be a part of this."

"Certainly. This has been his 'white whale'…. Over there, John," Sherlock pointed, "Our reception committee is hailing us."

A constable waving torches guided them inside the barricade and directed John to park alongside several unmarked cars.

"Hmmm."  _White whale? J_ ohn mused as childhood memories of a classic movie sprung to mind. Surprised by Sherlock's reference to maritime lore or possibly a U.S. literary trope, John had a fleeting thought that the Mind Palace might just have  _Moby Dick_ stored somewhere before he dismissed it. Tightening his lips, he turned the drive wheel, and pulled slowly toward the constable.

"Using a popular phrase denoting obsession," Sherlock stated casually, "does not require reading a ludicrously protracted tome about whaling. Besides, the films have more than belabored the point about a self-destructive fixation."

"What!" John's level of exasperation had instantly peaked, "I didn't  _say_  anything!"

"After our previous conversation about _Beowulf_ , I suspected you were considering my reference as literary," Sherlock maintained his smug façade, but there was teasing in his voice. "Scientific journals and forensic publications are important in my Mind Palace; other reading materials may have their uses on occasion, but you, John," Sherlock cocked an amused eyebrow, "are an open book…. The tone of your  _hmmm_  and the manner in which you clamped your lips shut suggested where you thoughts had gone."

"Well," John huffed with furrow browed as he shifted into park. "D'y know what I'm thinking now?"

"Cock… arsehole,…dickhead… fucking showoff….there are a string more, but decorum and time constraints prevent me from repeating them all."

"Guess it's true, then," John grinned despite himself and turned off the motor. "I  _am_  an open book."

All levity dissipated once they got out of the car.

Detective Inspector Gareth Bane had yet to arrive, but his constables had been informed about the consulting detective and the doctor. Sherlock and John shielded their eyes from the glare of the torches while the Tactical Support Team Detective Sergeant Stuart Duran verified their identities and briefed them on procedures. Not far off, trained TST personnel were preparing themselves in an area illuminated by the bright headlamps of the police vehicles. The Armed units equipped with full-body armor, ammo pouches, stun grenades, and tear-gas grenades stood in readiness. Constables on handheld radios gestured as they spoke to remote reconnaissance teams and the marine units prowling the waterways. Police dogs barking and whining strained at their leads as their handlers restrained them.

Although Bane had assigned Sherlock and John minor roles within the cohort bringing up the rear, his TST officers issued the civilians hefty protective gear that included helmets with torchlamps, ear protectors, gloves, Kevlar vests, and body armor. John donned his kit with familiarity and strapped on his own army boots, glad he had had the foresight to bring them along.

Sherlock swapped his long coat and shoes for more bog-appropriate gear. While he double checked his own forensic data-collecting equipment and arranged it in his knapsacks, John familiarized himself with the police-provided first-aid kit **:** antivenom for humans and dogs—adders were prevalent in the peaty areas— tourniquets, splints, and antibiotics—then he strapped it on.

John and Sherlock closely observed the collaboration of TST units—Armed Police; Dog; Firearms and Explosives; Major Crime, and Forensic support—as they received their instructions. Reports from the infra-red drone deployment—a new facet in their operation—were providing intel for the waiting ground and amphibious teams.

By the time a fully-kitted Bane appeared, it was half past six and the soft light of predawn was brightening the surroundings. The DI conferred with his officers about the readiness of the operation, then he strolled over to Sherlock and John. As he strapped his helmet under his chin, Bane told them. "An outsider lookin' on may think all this is overkill, but let me tell ya, this day 'as been long in comin'. We don't want to lose  _one_  more man on this maneuver. Our 'eads of operation agree we should spare no expense to bring everyone back intact. At least, with Cain in 'ospital, the odds of encounterin' flesh-and-blood adversaries are diminished, but until we're inside, we can't be sure there are no others."

"Understood," John replied in clipped military tone, mindful of the professional courtesy that had been extended to them.

"What do you expect to find?" Sherlock probed.

Bane shifted his gaze from the two Londoners to his assembled team. "Friends we've lost…evidence of missin' persons…of stolen property…. Unfortunately, we're in a recovery operation, but we're treatin' this as enemy combatant territory. Our surveillance drones that are equipped with live feed, 'eat and infrared sensors 'ave given us a fairly clear lay of the land, despite the 'eavy mists—wish our constabulary 'ad 'ad this technology years ago. It would've saved lives. Currently there 'as been no 'uman activity detected in the area. We've never been sure if Cain were working alone or if there were a whole army of others—'is kind—in'abitin' the area and workin' with 'im. This is encouragin' that no one else has been found." The DI squinted at his second in command, DS Stuart Duran, who was signaling him. "Our tactical units are in play. The marine approach 'as begun. We're ready to proceed by land. My orders to you, Mr. 'Olmes, Dr. Watson: stay be'ind and close, for your own safety."

Turning on his heel, Bane marched toward the others, shouting, "To 'Olme Post!"

888

The history of this nature reserve was distinctive. Unlike much of the Fens wetlands that had been drained during Victoria's reign to become farms, Holme Nature Reserve proved too wet to be cultivated. Nature reclaimed her territory, once the farmers and the farms had failed, and over generations the indigenous silver birch forest had arisen once again.

Surrounded by fields, forests and fens, and situated at the lowest land point in all of Great Britain, Holme Fen had both historic and geographic significance. Tourists walking the reserve's designated trails toward Holme Post could read the historical markers to learn about the "scenic silver birch woodland, the relic wetland plants such as saw sedge and fen wood-rush," and the deep peat carpet, still believed to extend "three meters down" despite its harvesting. The trail markers would also inform hikers that the Fen Post and Hall had served in OSS efforts during World War II to supply anti-Nazi resistance groups. It was here the U.S. Office of Strategic Services had packed airborne containers to be parachuted into occupied Europe for  _Operation Carpetbagger._ Sherlock was aware of these facts, not because he read the signs as they hiked past—it was still too foggy to see several feet beyond them, even in the fuller light of dawn, much less stop to read them—but because during his researches the evening before he had Googled it.

Nor would an outsider expect that concealed somewhere in the wildest stretches of wetlands off the regularly marked trails and beyond the Holme Post was the centuries-old secret stronghold inhabited by generations of Cains. This was not something one could Google, but Detective Inspector Gareth Bane, heading the Tactical Support Team's penetration of Mearcstapa _,_  was adamantly sure of it.

Through the acid grassland and heath of the fragile dunes, the march of nearly forty boots on the ground was conducted with painstaking precision, often halted by the ground technicians. They were suspicious of irregular indentations in the soil and odd bends in the reeds, but their concerns were unfounded and the teams pressed on. None of the officers or team members exchanged casual banter upon entering the reserve. The dogs panted and whimpered, indicating with random barks that wildlife moved in the rushes around them, but their handlers understood the trained animals were not raising an alarm. In the early morning November chill, no insects chirped, but the whirring surveillance drones were heard hovering reassuringly overhead even though veiled in the fog. John, somewhat oppressed by the murky ambience, did not engage Sherlock in conversation. For his part, Sherlock seemed not to require any, all his energies and faculties absorbed in observing their surroundings with keen interest.

Despite their caution, by sunrise the teams had arrived safely at the Holme Fen Post, the first leg of the operation. There, all the support units stopped, swapped specialists from each unit, and regrouped into separate vanguards comprised of every department and led by hazardous-device technicians.

Technical Unit-A and dogs were immediately dispatched into wetlands to check for trip wires and snares while the stationary units took advantage of the respite. Some took off their helmets, their hair matted from the damp and sweat, to grab a smoke or water. The handlers let the remaining dogs snuffle at the thick peat soil, aged over ten thousand years, to process scents. Specific units erected stations for communication and first-aid tents as they set up a long-term camp.

During their original briefing with the TST, John and Sherlock had been apprised that the full operation to explore Mearcstapa would take several days, but for the purposes of collecting evidence from the scene, Sherlock's quest was anticipated to be a quick trip in and out and accomplished within several hours. However, Sherlock and John would not be allowed to proceed until the trail had been declared "clear" of dangerous devices. Bane would be leading this last deployment, Unit-E, comprised mostly of forensic specialists, along with Sherlock and John, to the tribal residences that Winnie had described in her recording. Until then, all they could do was wait.

Initially Sherlock fretted and chafed over the vague timeline as to when that might be, but soon quieted himself.

John rested against a tree. He felt saturated not just by the chilling damp, but by the dark mental atmosphere of Bane's task force. " _Self-destructive fixation_." Sherlock's ominous words struck a chord with him. He wondered if the entire TST subscribed to the same obsession.  _It may explain why everyone looks so glum._

The DI had just finished his third cigarette since they arrived. The man set the tone for anxious, and after Sherlock's reference, John had begun wondering about Bane and his motivation. It had not even been twenty-four hours ago since they met the DI. They had learnt tidbits of his history. He had been a childhood friend— _sweetheart?—_ of Bebe, but their young 'love' had been thwarted by life-changing events imposed on them. The young Gary had been forced to move and during his prolonged absence, she went off…with someone who… became his worst enemy.

 _First loves die hard, but could this be it? Maybe Sherlock's right_ — _that should be no surprise_ _. Are we being led by a man obsessed with vengeance, a man pushing himself…hard, too hard?_

John knew first-hand about regrets and how they could push one to the brink, about fear and rage and how easy it was to pin all that fury and suffering on something-someone outside oneself.  _Back off!_  John warned himself and took a deep breath.  _This is about Bane, not you!_ Once again he focused on the DI lighting up yet another smoke while talking to one of his officers.

 _Healthwise, Bane's_ a bit _not good,_ John assessed from a distance. _He's overweight and a heavy smoker…His breathing is labored and wheezing. He walks with a pronounced limp. He's well past retirement age in police crime-fighting, a job that is physically demanding. Even now, there're risks involved in this operation that a younger man would be better doing. What's he trying to prove?_

Psychology was not John's area, but Bane manifested behavior of someone who acted as if there was nothing more to lose …someone with a death wish, a subconscious one, at least. John hesitated. Should he mention his misgivings to Sherlock?  _Probably not necessary!_  he huffed, unnerved by the idea that maybe Sherlock had already read this page of "Open-Book John Watson" and knew his thoughts.

John composed his face the best he could and joined Sherlock, where the detective had withdrawn a short distance from the hustle and bustle of the campsite but not so far away that he couldn't overhear the exchange of information among the various teams and learn more about the activities and the sequential tactics of the different units.

John knew his friend's method. Collecting actual data was more important than any speculation, so John joined him in listening. The more he heard, the more he appreciated the dangers the advancing teams faced. In addition to detonating any hazardous devices, some units would be searching for remains of victims, others would be gathering evidence of criminal activities, while several were working in concert with the marine division to map the unknown byways presumably used by Cain during his guerilla-like attacks on human victims who wandered too close. One after another, each team deployed on its specific mission. Those still behind waited in turn and tried to contain their apprehension.

When Unit-A radioed in, the operator hadn't needed to call Bane over. The DI had already been standing by in anticipation, eager for their report. He snatched the mic. "Go on!"

"We've disarmed at least twelve live traps for Chinese water deer, foxes, badgers, and rabbits… but, sir, we've had one serious encounter not twenty minutes after leaving base camp."

"Explain," Bane grimaced; worried he beckoned John and Sherlock over to listen.

"PC Larks was struck by a steel-tipped spear meant for bigger prey. It pierced the padding of his chest armor. The point came in contact with skin, but except for a slight scratch, he's sustained no injuries and wants to continue the mission with us."

Bane blew out his cheeks with relief, but John took the mic. "Tell the medic to keep an eye on him for reactions that are suspicious …" John advised not letting the radio operator take back the microphone until he was certain the party understood, "…like slurred speech, headache, and cardiac arrhythmias. Call back for consultation about anything unusual."

"Yes sir!" The voice on the radio crackled. John handed over the microphone to the operator, but once again, Bane swept it up.

"Proceed with extreme caution," the DI reminded in a steely voice. "We want a clear path, but no casualties. You understand?"

"Understood. Over."

John found Sherlock giving him a nod of approval. "Wise precaution, John. Bufagin, the gland secretion from local toads, has effects similar to poisoning by digitalis, but doesn't it have to be ingested?"

"Not taking any chances that our survivalist couple didn't somehow perfect a more toxic concoction to arm their spearheads…" John shrugged, "Vigilance is our best defense, right?"

Sherlock agreed with a dry smile that instantly dissolved when the radio crackled again—with another voice.

Unit-C was calling in after encountering a panther. Although no men on this team were harmed, one of the dogs had been swiped by a vicious paw before the wildcat retreated. The dog's wounds were superficial, but the canine, along with her handler, were headed back to the Holme Post for triage.

Other exploratory missions had their own sets of challenges. Snaking water courses created natural barriers between tufts of solid ground. Crossing over, one man slipped and fell, and was quickly sucked so deep into the bog his rescue took several men to pull him free or he would have been completely submerged in minutes. He and three companions covered in foul-smelling mud returned to the first-aid tent at the Holme camp, leaving a small contingent of three men to carry on. John hurried over to the first-aid tent to offer his services, Sherlock following out of curiosity. The four men had their vitals checked by the medics, were washed down with disinfectant and examined for bites and leeches. They remained asymptomatic of venomous adder bites and were finally issued new attire before they were sent back out.

The natural barriers presented by the terrain, the fog, and the potentials for hazardous devices hampered the entire operation. Still not called to stand ready, John and Sherlock hung back in the damp and chilly Holme Fen Camp keenly aware that the advantage of the early timeline was slipping. Soon it would be noon.

888**888


	13. The Long Wait

888**888

John had not expected the plodding maneuvers into Mearcstapa to sit well with Sherlock. Their prolonged wait brought back memories of Afghanistan, those quiet but nerve-wracking intervals he had experienced between clashes at enemy lines. Some soldiers found them mind-numbing, but back then the former army surgeon had a variety of coping mechanisms to deal with the lulls prior to intense eruptions of action. It had become Captain John Watson's practice to use that unexpected time to reflect on important matters, to review aspects of his life and to teach himself patience. Now, as he checked his surroundings at Holme Post, it struck him that it had been a long time since he had even attempted it. Yet another casualty of his war injury, the coping techniques failed him during his convalescence. It was the reason Ella suggested he begin a blog.

Here in the camp, Sherlock's reaction to their wait was a revelation. There  _was_  none, at least not the pronounced tirade for which Sherlock had once been famous. Since voicing his last complaint to John about Bane's restriction and the ongoing delay, Sherlock had gone off a short ways to think and had not made a peep since. The detective appeared adjusted to the waiting game, seemingly serene, and not fidgeting with impatience or grumbling about the ineptitude of the officials.

Giving his friend a sidelong glance, John leant against a tree. Sherlock, too, was nearby leaning against a slender birch but his eyes were closed, his breathing regular. Unlike his concentration during one of his Mind Palace retreats, Sherlock appeared to be meditating.

_Controlling himself with meditation,_ not _medication!_ John observed. _Perhaps there was some truth in what Greg had said. Anderson believed Sherlock had spent time hiding among Tibetan monks._

Yesterday's remark about karma was possibly further evidence of Sherlock's monastic experiences and his offhanded reference,  _"my two years as an undercover operative in eastern Europe…"_ to persuade Bane they were fit for the endeavor were both allusions to those missing years. Although John would not flatter himself to believe he could ever truly understand what made that brilliant mind tick, the longer he associated with his friend, the more nuanced Sherlock seemed. These instances had John pondering.  _There's a lot I still don't know…_   _there probably always will be._

He squinted harder at his friend, deciding to take advantage of the present lull in maneuvers and resume his old army practice. For the first time—without distractions from a fiancée-wife, from a child, from life's demands—John could reflect on the differences he had observed of late in Sherlock. These more mannerly behaviors were indeed in sharp contrast to the ones John had first encountered and a reminder of how far they had come since then.

John closed his eyes, envisioning clearly the younger man. That friendless Sherlock had been driven to insolence by impatience, was impertinent toward and petulantly intolerant of authority, and had demonstrated insufferable arrogance when proving his cleverness. The self-centered genius, ever dismissive of public opinion, had soundly denounced heroes as fictional…all this  _before_  he faked his death and endured two years in hell…demonstrating the great heart very few had known existed.

Although Sherlock had returned with grand presumptions—that the life he had left had not changed—being proven wrong on those counts was not the only surprise. More so was that  _he_  had changed. The manic man-child showed self-restraint in how he dealt with others—not just his few friends—and employed social amenities John had rarely seen in Sherlock Holmes before. He wondered what had caused such a transformation, but what man returning from the "dead" would not be changed?

Recent heartaches had been life-changing for them both, but Sherlock's shift from "alone protects me" to being a stalwart friend, a best man, his  _best_  friend who swore "I will always be there,  _ALWAYS_..." was significant because it had happened after his return. What had Sherlock learnt about  _attachments...commitments...friendship_... since the plunge off St. Bart's when he began that difficult mission alone? What happened in Tibet? What happened those two years to the genius...the "best and wisest" man who had saved an invalided soldier—not just by jumping off the roof in an heroic act of self-sacrifice—but before that?

The image of the gun in the drawer at the depressing bedsit made John shake his head _…from those thoughts…what I had considered doing…_ John shoved aside his memories of despair—especially the more recent ones—and turned his mind back to the man standing a meter away, the man who had changed. To ask Sherlock upfront about those years has always been a touchy subject, awkward, but John could start to understand by analyzing the detective's newfound patience.

Sherlock must have found his reserves for patience or imposed some kind of self-restraint on those explosive behaviors which he had famously used as a tool against ineptitude. He would have had to rely upon his extraordinary mental agility, stealth and disguises, along with his astonishing skill sets for languages and psychological manipulation during his two-year mission as an undercover operative dismantling Moriarty's network. It could not have all been an intellectual exercise, however, not against Moriarty. Alone, Sherlock would have had to make split-second decisions against the enemy, to respond quickly when situations took unexpected turns, and like soldiers in combat, he would have had to use lethal force to survive. But John had never discussed this with his friend and Sherlock had never volunteered to disclose any details of what hardships he had endured to save the lives of his friends; another and unexpected form of restraint since the genius had always insisted upon sharing his brilliant achievements with an audience, with— _with me! Except, you didn't care to give me one word about your plans or that you were alive …_

_OH! GET OVER IT, JOHN!_ The Mary-in-his-head scolded.

It was hard to get over—back then at least—and John had made very few overtures to learn what those sacrifices had been. Sherlock, too, had seemed as eager to get past the whole mess and press on with new adventures. Hurt pride stoked John's anger, however, and nagging little doubts about trusting Sherlock lingered even after their partnership had been re-established. John's plans with Mary and then the baby were distractions. His new life covered over the gaps in his old one. But perceptive Mary knew better, saw the hidden scars in a fellow undercover operative, and did her best—with one  _inexplicably complicated_ exception—to reconcile the unique friends. In time, John came round to Mary's thinking—she was very persuasive. Yet, having been burnt by his devotion to his friend, John had begun to rely on Mary to help him determine when Sherlock was being completely genuine. Nor could he fathom what was going on in that extraordinary brain or comprehend the motives which drove that thawing heart to continue making outrageous sacrifices.

_"Christ, Sherlock!"_

Sherlock's last-ditch "solution" to Magnussen's threat—throwing his own life away for a  _second_  time to protect Mary and John's happiness—made the reasons for his friend's "logic" more confounding. Then, more recently a  _third_  time with Culverton Smith, another self-sacrifice—

_"Go right into Hell,"_ Mary's posthumous message to Sherlock replayed in John's brain, " _and make it look like you mean it.…"_

John shook his head. Nothing could ever completely atone for Mary's death, but his own involvement in saving Sherlock from Smith had caused a seismic shift and opened a fissure of forgiveness in John's heart, for his friend  _and_  for himself.

_You saved me more than once, and now Rosie… from …from myself._ John squeezed his eyes hard and bit his lower lip.  _I'd thank you, but of course, we're rubbish at talking …utter cock …We're experts at letting sleeping dogs lie...Mary's biggest complaint._

Leaning against this tree in the nature reserve, John no longer required Mary's help or persuasion to believe that Sherlock's improved behavior was genuine, that the self-proclaimed sociopath was not faking personal growth simply to mollify John. Rather, "the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole" had chosen to put others' lives and happiness  _and_  redemption, above his own—because Sherlock  _cared_ —had  _always_ cared, despite the childhood trauma that had made the grown man try repress it, made him lie to himself about it.  _The Sherlock Holmes I'm seeing now is the one who has been there all along. Sacrifice, hardship, and tragedies? Is that what it took to burn away his self-protective façade of a high-functioning sociopath_ — _his_   _greatest disguise_ — _to become the good man Greg hoped he would one day be._

An old, unsatisfied curiosity grew stronger in John.

_What_ did _happen_   _when you_   _went undercover_?  _What didn't you tell me? All right, it's my bloody fault, too. What didn't I want to hear? What was it you thought I was unprepared to hear, Sherlock?_ John's breath caught, aware suddenly of how self-absorbed he had been.  _And why didn't I at least say_ thank you?  _Rubbish or not. Well, that's gonna change, mate_.  _If you can change, I can change_.  _I don't care if you don't want to hear it. It needs to be said. Mary would agree. More than that, Sherlock, I need to say it to put things right._

John pushed off the tree, steadied his feet on the spongey peat ground and cleared his throat, ready to speak, except he could not. Sherlock looked serene, his distinctive face youthful. With his vibrant eyes closed, his usually tense brow appeared relaxed and untroubled. To disturb him seemed a cruelty.

_Well,_ John equivocated, _not_ right _now!_

_Christ, John! Stay. Talk!_  Came unbidden in Mary's exasperated voice.

_I will say something **,**  of course, _John argued with himself _, but not here, in this camp, …maybe when we're heading back to London._

John quickly closed down his thoughts and cast a guilty glance toward his friend, wary that Sherlock might actually have been watching and "reading" him.

Sherlock, still meditating, seemed unaware.

888

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" John lightly clapped his friend on the shoulder. "It's time."

Sherlock's eyes snapped wide and noticed the gleam in John's.

"We're heading out," John shared in a quiet voice. "Unit-E is standing ready."

Bane had been chomping at the bit to advance, his loud grousing had carried in the close quarters of the camp, and his shout of relief when they were called to action excited the two dogs reserved for the last infiltration. It was nearly half past noon, but at least the pea-soup fog had mysteriously vaporized.

If all went according to plan, Sherlock expected he would have enough time for evidence-collection before they would be required to head back to Holme Post. From there, John and he would be escorted to the carpark where they could motor back to London. This time-frame was still well within the "Adventure Timetable" Sherlock had issued to the childminders back home, but was glad he had taken the precaution of an addendum to the plan if a second overnight stay became necessary.

Bane's unit entered the wetlands and woodlands, grateful that the path had been cleared. Evidence of the other technical teams' handiwork lay strewn in the numerous traps that had been defused and sprung. Among the newer devices, scraps of long-abandoned old traps lay within the rushes. As they passed, Sherlock plucked several broken saw-tooth blades coated in rust from the moist ground and carefully swathed the evidence before putting them in one of his rucksacks. He also noted many more panther prints as evidence that they were closer to the Marsh Man's territory. Winnie's admission that Cain ...  _" **shew me where the large cats lived in the grasses. Several were his pets,"**_  had come to mind when John nearly hit a wildcat with his car. Would a cat be prowling for its master? Paramedics had picked up the unconscious man in the same vicinity several days prior.

Spurred on by the buttery daylight, they made quick progress through the thickets and birch forests despite their heavy gear and the constant switchbacks of the trails. Without the dense fog impeding their visibility, the team clearly saw the evidence of previous inhabitants—they passed several stone fire pits set back off the path with pots and crude cooking cutlery stacked nearby. In a small clearing, a dilapidated shack standing askew was draped in fishing line from which animal pelts still hung. Empty wire-mesh cages in various sizes were scattered haphazardly and there appeared to be small enclosures surrounded by bramble fences not far from the shack.

As they drew closer to their woodland destination, Unit-E drew took note of the several canoes, ranging in length from three to nine meters, made from bulrush or log dug-outs of the old-growth, dense-grained oak English shipwrights had used for centuries. Some were lying tilted on the moist soil in disrepair; others were moored in the wide creek nearby as if ready for transport.

Every man observed each " _artifact"_ —the only applicable word for the oddities they encountered—but no one spoke of the strangeness of what they were seeing or of the primitive life the simple objects and structures described.

Further along Unit-E came upon a series of curious structures: wooden posts sticking out of the peat formed rings. Some circles were complete while those on the water's edge were broken as if their timbers had slipped into the river silt.

But an awed silence overtook Bane's team when they reunited with the TST and technicians from Unit-A in an immense dirt clearing at the location Winnie had described. Surrounding them, under of an enormous canopy of camouflaging birches, was a cluster of seven intact roundhouses made of wattle reed and timber sitting on stilts. That these houses had eluded all aerial surveillance including GPS was a testament to the sophisticated craftsmanship of the original inhabitants who had built them to blend in with the surroundings. The timber posts that supported the roundhouses were identical to the posts the team had seen on the hike in. Presumably, those, too, had belonged to a "village" within Mearcstapa. The surviving structures of roundhouses at the heart of Mearcstapa appeared long abandoned, all except the largest roundhouse at the center. It still had one resident: a sole chicken perched at the opened threshold, clucked and tilted its white head at the men staring in awe. Unimpressed, it hopped down the long entrance ramp and away.

"Welcome to the ancestral home of Harmen and Winnie Cain," Sherlock broke the long silence in a whisper to John.

888**888


	14. Under the Canopy

888***888

The deep shade of the birch forest glistened with sunlight as the dense canopy swayed in the breeze, but the scenic delights were furthermost from the minds of the men who gathered beneath.

While Bane's Unit-E regrouped with Technical Unit-A for the next phase of their operation, the DI was immediately brought up to speed. He was guided to the "command post" that Unit-A had set up to centralize operations for communication, defense, and first-aid. The ersatz C.P.—strategically situated in the section of the dirt clearing that afforded the most comprehensive view of all the dwellings—merely consisted of two portable tables for the radio and lighting equipment, several portable chairs, and a cot. Bane sank into the closest chair to catch his breath and rest his knee while he listened to Unit-A Head give a report. Once apprised that all appropriate precautions had been taken and the dwellings were safe for forensic inspection, Bane ordered both the armed and dog units to use the valuable daylight and expand their exploration of the surrounding terrain. At the same time, he gave the go-ahead to the forensic team, adding one stern warning, "Stay within the safe zones." He deliberately focused on Sherlock and John as if he expected resistance or outright defiance at a prudent restriction.

Frowning, Sherlock turned without a word and followed John to the makeshift prep station—a smaller portable table with one chair—that was several yards from the "doorstep" of the great roundhouse. There, the Forensic Science Investigators removed unnecessary gear and donned hooded scrubs, masks, gloves, and slippers while discussing the protocols among themselves. Sherlock was unusually absent from their conversation, but one glance at the impassive face told John the detective's mind was busy elsewhere.

Sherlock tuned out the reiterations of the FSI team to focus on his objective.  _" **Yew must show my plan by investigatin', Mr Holmes, what I do and how I do it to kill him,"**_ was the challenge Winnie had given him, even though Bane had thrown a serious spanner in the works.

And had it not been for John Watson, the game would not be afoot.

Sherlock was both pleased and grateful to be standing outside the Cain's home. His adrenaline surged with the prospect of selecting choice specimens for analysis despite Bane's limitations, but  _half a loaf is better than none._ Not for the first time Sherlock admired John's intercession with Bane. It had been masterful. Sherlock had not had to give up on a fascinating opportunity. To be  _this_  close to the answers was exhilarating. He quashed the momentary delight he felt at the prospect—along with the unbidden smile—spun on his heel and headed toward the roundhouse before the others.

Long strides propelled by enthusiasm gave Sherlock the advantage and he bounded up the ramp to the entrance before the others. With his arms spread wide, Sherlock shouted _, "Wait!"_ Poking only his head into the dark interior, he pulled off his face mask and sniffed while his body remained blocking the door.

"Was sup! Techs said it was safe." FSI Glen Howe grumbled.

With his head inside—if he even heard—Sherlock did not answer

"What the hell y'doin'?" Another FSI balked after bumping into a colleague. The others were still murmuring among themselves when John joined them.

"He's sniffing," John explained unhelpfully at the back of the group, chuckling to himself when the perplexed team had turned back to watch Sherlock sniffing the rank air.

"Well?" FSI Geoffrey Morrow groused his impatience. "How long's this gonna take?"

Sniffing for clues was not a pleasant task but environmental odors were key in any investigation. Sherlock detected fish, rotting meat, and the smells associated with human sickness and disease in that initial sniff. Another whiff revealed a blend of stale body odor, both animal and human, smoky ash commingling with sour swamp air and the rich peat soil. More important to his particular investigation, he caught trace chemical smells that included ammonia, thiols, alcohol, chlorine, urine, and tannins and the more familiar scents of fermentation and mold.

Once Sherlock's eyes acclimated to the dim light he spotted in the center of the space an open-hearth flanked by wrought-iron fire dogs. Under it was mounded ash and above it was a sizeable bronze cauldron with a utensil handle poking above its rim. A tripod with an adjustable chain suspended the cauldron over the heat source. Flies buzzed above the pot, suggesting a cold fish or meat-based stew had been abandoned when Cain had left days ago.

With the acrid array of chemical smells sorted and stored in his Mind Palace, Sherlock withdrew his head. He turned toward the impatient scientists he had blocked, flashed a self-satisfied grin and exclaimed, "All done!" then spun around, switched on his head torch, and ducked inside again.

The FSI team switched on their head torches, pulled their face masks over their noses, and followed Sherlock across the threshold. The dark and dank interior was filthy and ripe with such a foul-smelling stench that penetrated their masks. Some coughing and gagging were heard but the Constabulary men were up to the challenge. Their task was to check for human blood, teeth, skulls and bone fragments along with artifacts and keepsakes of missing hikers. Given they were working in less than ideal conditions, the cadaver dogs were more likely to find the evidence of Cain's life-long criminal activity in the haphazard graves along the river, in the river silt and bogs.

John choked and inhaled through his mouth as he took in the surroundings.  _Missing a woman's touch, no doubt, for many years…_  He wondered whether Winnie had been debilitated by her illness years before she entered the hospital or if these deplorable conditions were the result of her deliberate refusal to keep a healthy home—a passive-aggressive move of yet another kind.

The light coming from the doorway and open eaves would not have been sufficient to illuminate the space. Presumably firelight from the hearth would have helped, but as John surveyed the living space with his head lamp, he noticed reed torches had been strategically placed. Tucked to one side of the main door were assorted musty-smelling pallets covered with worn handwoven blankets. The number of beds was a reminder that there had been a family of Cains before Harmen returned from the asylum—and murdered his entire family? —well before he took Winnie to be his wife.

There was a sitting area was on the other side, distinguished by several wood-hewn chairs covered in coarse burlap pillows, mildewed with age. Alongside the chairs were columns of dusty, ash-covered books. Several stacks had toppled and remained strewn among old newspapers. An upright weaving loom appeared to have been untouched for years and at the foot of one chair a reed basket full of dirty spun yarn awaited someone to take up the needles. The floor was rough and filthy with rodent droppings and insect carcasses. Whether there had been man-made flooring beneath would require excavation because layers of detritus, dirt, and ash covered everything.

While the forensic teams took photos, measurements, and catalogued the scene, Sherlock methodically packed samples of ash from the cold hearth and tucked them in one of his rucksacks. The cauldron was alive with maggots and buzzing flies and the hefty ladle was crusted over with food and rust. Sherlock carefully scraped corroded flakes and substantial samples from each into collection containers and bags, meticulously labeling each one.

Mere steps away from the hearth was what passed for a kitchen—Winnie's headquarters for murder. Everything—the heavy wooden board showing evidence of chopping, the array of cutlery, the mallets, rolling pins, measuring cups, the unmarked bottles and tins of ingredients—drew Sherlock's interest. He inspected the wooden cupboards, recorded and took samples from jars of pickled and preserved foods stocked on shelves, excitedly anticipating learning what ingredients Winnie had used to prepare her poison-laced preserves.

Despite the speed at which he worked, Sherlock was cautious. Before lifting or pulling any object, he studied it, determining whether it had been moved recently and whether there might be a booby-trap connected to it; according to the dust levels some objects had gone untouched for years—these could be the most dangerous—a laid trap not yet triggered. His keen eye saved his fingers from a spring-loaded mousetrap that snapped behind a jar. In another spot, he avoided a jagged blade nearly invisible in the shadows that protruded from the wood shelf. Had his hand been scratched, it would have been a minor inconvenience as long as the blade had not been tipped with poison, but for Harmen Cain, a little scratch in an environment without antibiotics or tetanus vaccine didn't need poison to be deadly.

Sherlock focused on the edges of the assorted knives with his magnifying lens; some were sharp, some blunted with use. He picked through the assorted herbs hanging from the roof timbers on slender strings and perused the crockery, slipping a small skillet layered with decades of grease into a forensic envelope and added it to a second rucksack. He took great pains to sniff out every putrid odor in the cooking oils and lard. As needed, he pulled out a small notebook to jot down his observations, other times he input a message on his smart phone, expecting to send it once clear of the dead zone.

Nothing was too trivial for his investigation but limitations of time and portability curtailed his choices. Only so much could he carry out with him for his forensic analysis later. As his two rucksacks grew heavier with samples, Sherlock regretted not having brought a third.

Soon enough, little dangers came from unexpected sources. Unit-A forensic scientist Geoffrey Morrow, paired with Unit-E's Glen Howe, had trouble opening the warped wooden door of a storage cupboard in the back section of the dwelling. It took the strength of both men to prise free. When it swung open, it hit the front of a freestanding wardrobe with a loud bang, causing the solid oak piece to topple forward, pushing both FSIs inside, shutting the door behind them and trapping them. The crashing of the wardrobe hitting the ground startled everyone while the muffled shouts from within summoned help.

It took two men with John's assistance to drag the fallen wardrobe away from the door. Inside, they found Morrow and Howe sitting on a mound of netting, ropes and pulleys, in a storage cupboard for weapons and hunting equipment.

Howe had twisted his ankle but otherwise the two men had been fortunate: had the force from the fallen wardrobe that pushed them forward and momentarily imprisoned them been stronger, they might have been thrust against the open-jawed metal traps, pointed pikes, sharp war-bow arrows poking from a quiver, and spears mounted on the walls. It was luck that their injuries were not serious.

"Well, gentlemen!" Sherlock clapped his hands in delight as he surveyed the contents of the cupboard. "You've hit the jackpot. With this stockpile of used weapons you should find a trove of evidence."

"Luck, maybe! That wardrobe, toppling like that, was a freak accident!" Howe shook his head in bewilderment as John checked and bandaged the man's ankle. It was not a severe sprain and Howe could still walk about. "Never saw it coming," he said.

"That was  _no_ accident," Sherlock corrected upon inspecting the wardrobe lying on its side. "These front legs have been deliberately shaved down."

"How?" Miffed, Morrow dusted himself off. "Don't tell me one person laid it down to tamper with the legs? Just now, that  _damned_  wardrobe took several  _bloody_  men to move it."

"Laid down, no. Standing upright, yes. See the cut marks," Sherlock squatted and pointed at subtle incisions made in the wood. "The angle suggests that a person worked on it while the wardrobe stood in place. I imagine it was painstaking, lying on the floor to whittle at each leg with a sharp device. It took time and great patience. And notice, too, how the dirt floor slopes toward the cupboard to ensure the direction of its fall."

"But, Sherlock," John puzzled. "Why hadn't it fallen before this? Cain has been here at least three years without Winnie?"

"Good question, John," Sherlock studied the floor and smiled in admiration. "This is conjecture, I'm afraid. We know by her own admission that Winnie had been sickening her husband for untold years, sapping his strength with her concoctions and setting booby traps. It's possible he no longer had the strength to use the weapons in this cupboard. These specific traps are used to hunt large and  _maybe_  human prey, and you will already have noticed the other contraptions and fishing gear at the ready. Cain could still hunt small game and fish to survive. I surmise, due to his waning strength, he never accessed the cupboard after she spent all that time to lay the trap. Clearly, if Cain had tried, he would have been trapped himself."

Despite the boon in finding the blood-stained weapons in the cupboard, the forensic scientists were more circumspect of their surroundings, especially after hearing Sherlock's explanation. With new respect for Cain's long-dead wife, they were wary that a casual touch might spring another booby trap.

John dodged the forensic team, trying to stay  _literally_  out of harm's way as they worked. This was not unusual. On many of their investigations, Sherlock did the  _actual_  investigating. Usually, John stood ready to give needed medical details to help Sherlock frame the crime scenario. He'd also provide social intervention and guidance when Sherlock was too blunt with the officials, police or clients. With all the forensic scientists in the roundhouse, John was uncertain if it were necessary for him to rummage through the dwelling or, for that matter, what he should be looking for.

_It would have to leap out at me._

Still, John walked with extreme caution toward the "living quarters" and sorted through the musty garments and bedding that had slipped off the pallets and lay in crumpled heaps on the dirt floor. He surprised a coiled snake camouflaged by a blanket and recoiled with a low shout as the snake hissed, equally affronted, then slithered away.

"John?" Sherlock paused with his magnifying lens in one hand and a sprig of dry herb in the other, his face mask pulled down under his chin as his intense eyes crossed the room toward his friend. The other scientists halted with concern, alerted by Sherlock's piercing tone, and focused on the doctor.

"Fine! No. All good," John stifled his embarrassment at being the center of attention. "Just getting acquainted with the house guests."

"Adder?" Sherlock queried having heard it hiss.

"Dunno. It left in a hurry. Didn't leave a calling card," John sniffed behind his face mask and reassuringly patted his first-aid kit. "Don't suppose that will be the _last_  one we encounter."

"Not likely," Sherlock agreed but offered John no further caution.

Moving slowly through the room, John examined the yellowed newspapers, dated more than seventeen years earlier, that had been stuffed in crevices in the wattle walls.  _Draught proof perhaps, but not snake proof_. He approached the garment chests—unsure what might leap out at him when he opened them. He was relieved when all he found were clothes or handmade linens. Small boxes of tin, wood, and cardboard were tucked inside one drawer. Several unlidded boxes held assorted personal effects, ivory buttons, a filigree charm, a pair of dice, and a gold wristwatch. There was one relatively modern-looking cardboard box with its clear-cellophane top containing stationery. John rooted among the drawers' contents and found a large box with a wood-inlay lid— a delicate rose design— its ornamentation alone giving it importance. John found old pieces of jewelry resting atop folded documents inside. The glass-beaded necklace on discolored string looked fragile and ancient. A blackened brooch, possibly of tarnished silver, was shaped like a snake with glittering precious green gems for eyes. But John was not interested in the jewelry. The papers beneath looked important and he lifted them from the box.

"What have you got, John?" Although Sherlock had seemed preoccupied, he was aware of the investigation going on around him. He was especially attuned to John's rummaging and protracted silence. Before John had time to completely open the papers, Sherlock was standing alongside him and reading over his shoulder.

"I think…." John scanned the official-looking documents with letterhead belonging to the Brumehelm Asylum , "…these are commitment letters date 18 April 1933…" he read faster in anticipation of what he knew he would find "…for Harmen Grendel Cain! Two doctors signed the certificate of insanity…" John closed his eyes for a brief instant imagining the horrors to which the child, deemed "violent," would had been subjected—confinement in a small wooden closet or pen, hampered by a jack or leg-lock, bound by a strait jacket, and wearing a leather mask over his face and fastened from behind.

_It's a wonder he survived! Did these abuses create the monster?_

"John," Sherlock urged in a whisper intended to bring John back to the task before them. "We're not here to pass judgement but to ascertain facts. The age of the paper and the legitimacy of the letterhead you're holding are irrefutable…and evidence for the Constabulary archives… What's that?" The detective spotted the nearly full box of stationery inside the opened drawer and picked it up.

Now seen in Sherlock's hands, the stationery looked familiar to John. "Hold on! That's the same paper—?"

"As Winnie's note," Sherlock finished and turned over the well-preserved box. On the underside was a message. It read  _Write me_ , a Manchester address had been scribbled in a childish hand. It was signed  _Gary._

John's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as another thought occurred to him. "You showed the DI Winnie's note, didn't you? He didn't say anything…do you think he recognized it?"

"It was a long time ago...childhood memories are mutable…," Sherlock reflected somberly, "but showing Bane this might jolt those memories."

John nodded, "...and answer a question or two about Bebe's sentiments about  _him._  Dr. Rath said the 'stationery was a gift her sister cherished.'"

"Cherished, perhaps. Yet hardly used," Sherlock mused and snapped open a forensic bag to deposit the nearly full stationery box. "So much for sentiment. Unshared and unrealized, it changed nothing in the course of things."

"Wait, Sherlock!" John whispered with a restraining hand on his friend's arm. "Is that really evidence you should be taking?"

"Not evidence, but information Bane should have…"

"Or heartache he may not want to relive…."

888**888


	15. Calamaties

888**888

Sherlock and John stepped outside the roundhouse and into the middle of a commotion. Armed and dog units returning from surveillance were bringing in a casualty flanked by team members for support.

"Hey, Doc!"

John turned toward the shout and hurried over to join Unit-A team paramedic Henry Branscomb in assessing the leg injury of a wounded constable who was unable to bear weight on his foot. His comrades seated him on a convenient log where John could examine him.

"What have we here?" John read the name badge,"Sgt. Williams, is it?"

"Yeah, Guv…um… _Doc_. Metal trap. Leg-hold type. Closed right over my foot 'fore I knew it… caught me by the ankle," Williams winced as he moved it. "Mates sprung me loose."

"Let's have a look," John knelt and unlaced the heavy bog-slathered boot. The leather high top bore gashes where the sharp teeth had bitten into it. Despite how gently John worked, Williams drew in short breaths until the entire boot had been removed.

"On a scale of one to ten," John scrutinized the constable's face, "—ten being the worst—how do your rate your pain?"

"Umm…a four…maybe five…," William's gritted teeth told John the pain was closer to a seven or eight. The ex-army doctor had seen this unnecessary bravado in a patient often enough: it complicated rather than clarified things. "It's throbbing kinda fierce, though," Williams finally admitted. "Y'think it's broke?"

"Will know soon enough," John nodded at the more accurate statement and gave Williams an encouraging smile. "Certainly not an severe break if it's a break at all. Listen, can you tell me if you heard a particular sound when it happened, like a crack or a pop?"

"Neither, "Williams shook his head. "The snap of the trap was all I heard…and then pain."

Williams grimaced whenever John palpated the ligaments. "When I touch your ankle bone here… is there numbness or tingling?"

"No. Just pain in the soft parts."

Upon further examination of the injured area, John grunted. "Well, Williams, looks like your boot did its job. That's good news!"

John gave the injured man a reassuring smile and turned to address the police paramedic hovering nearby. "You see here, Branscomb. No lacerations or punctures. The integrity of the skin and the bones beneath seem intact, there is some swelling, but there are no obvious breaks—he'll need an x-ray to rule out a fracture. For maneuvers like these he should've been up-to-date with his tetanus shots, but that will have to be verified. For now, we'll take care of this bruising, likely from the impact of the spring mechanism. Cleanse the site. Let's get a cold pack on it straightaway and Paracetamol for the pain. We'll have to keep an eye out for more swelling …got it?" John stepped back to let the paramedic take over.

"Alright. Thanks, Doc!" After wiping the bruise with an antiseptic, Branscomb activated an instant cold compress from a first-aid kit, applied a cloth to protect Williams' skin and wrapped the compress with bandages around the injured ankle as John watched.

"Listen up," John placed a comforting hand on Williams' shoulder. "You must sit here for a bit to elevate your foot. This will help keep the swelling down. We'll arrange for your transport back to Holme Post as soon as a party leaves."

John looked about for the DI to give his report; Bane was nowhere to be seen.

During this exchange, Sherlock had been watching but it was not the patient who drew his curiosity—it was the doctor.

What Sherlock had just witnessed—John's alacrity and authority, his quiet confidence and his instilling the same in the traumatized constable—had not really surprised him. He expected no less from John. However, in their past investigations together Sherlock's interest and role had always been primary, thrusting John into a secondary—sometimes tertiary—role if police were involved. John now was speaking and moving with an understated command he rarely had occasion to display in their investigations, at least not like  _this_.

_"I need this,"_  John had admitted hours earlier almost shamefacedly.

What was  _this_ , then? A role where he was not secondary—but primary? Didn't John have a primary role at the surgery with his patients?  _Must give John's THIS more thought,_  Sherlock realized, but whatever THIS was, John had brought it to the table.

In addition, Sherlock clearly saw THIS as progress in his so-called  _The John Experiment_  to convince John that future field-maneuver opportunities remained open to him—as long as Rosie's care and safety were ensured. Satisfied with his assessment, Sherlock removed his protective scrubs and prepared for the march back to Holme Post with the assigned team. He was refitting his hiking gear and cautiously shouldering the heavy rucksacks when John returned.

"Going to have extra company on our hike out," John informed Sherlock as he hurried to change. Once he had pulled off his scrubs and zipped into the heavy protective jacket, he eyed Sherlock's rucksacks skeptically. "Those look heavy," John was all too familiar with how petty annoyances ballooned into major aggravations on long marches. "Not sure you'd be able to endure the torture after a few minutes," he added in jest, about to suggest he'd carried one.

"Regardless of what you think of my tolerance, John, I assure you my so-called breaking point under torture is high."

It was delivered as a matter-of-fact statement; to John it was anything but.  _Sherlock knows his breaking point under_  torture _?_  He threw Sherlock a curious look to get a read on his friend's face except Sherlock had turned his back, distracted by clamorous shouts, the sounds of running feet and barking dogs behind them. Among the TST returning from the outer marshes, four men had their arms locked under the shoulders and around the ankles of a bulky mud-covered casualty; another man was supporting the head.

"Bane!" Sherlock recognized the prone form instantly, even as John was already rushing to help.

"'E got sucked into a patch o'bog…where we found 'uman bones. Took some doin' to get 'im free. Afte', the Guv 'ad trouble breathing. Couldn't get wind," one man explained, winded himself from the struggle to get the twenty-stone-plus DI to medical help.

"Lay him down here!" John ordered, "I need the full-emergency kit and defib."

John removed Bane's helmet, opened his jacket and checked his carotid pulse. The Di was disoriented, uncomfortable, and fidgety, feebly swatting John's forearms as he loosened Bane's shirt to clear the neck and chest regions.  _Thready!_   _Labored breathing._   _Grey pallor. Jugular venous distention._ _Cardiac Arrest…_.

"Pop this under your tongue, mate," John said, cradling Bane's head and inserting a sublingual nitro tablet while Branscomb hooked up the ECG leads and paramedic Elster who had returned with Bane, checked the blood pressure and oxygen saturations. The numbers were not good.

John could guess what they were up against: the DI was overweight, unfit and a chain smoker. Even if he knew for certain Bane's health history and preexisting conditions, John feared the odds were not good in the remote marshlands, but there was no time for useless speculation.

"Bag him, start a line and attach the AED pads," John directed the paramedics and turned to the TST members who were standing ready, watching worriedly. "Radio for assistance. Tell them we have a CR, cardiac arrest. Request immediate helicopter transport. We need experts in aeromedical evacuation and optimally a cardiac team. Determine a landing zone...on the beach…in the marsh…atop the roundhouse …I don't  _bloody_  care… as long as it gives us the fastest access for boarding … Oh, and locate your next-in-charge. He should be informed what's going on here." After barking his orders, John turned back to the semi-conscious Bane who was having difficulty breathing even with the respirator bag over his face and clearly was incapacitated by pain. "Gareth, can you hear me? Stay with us, now," John spoke to focus the DI's attention. "Nod if what I say is correct. Chest pain?"

Bane squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

"Do you have shooting pain—pins and needles—into the neck and groin?" John probed.

Again Bane nodded, moaned, then went limp. John checked the carotid artery again.  _Life-threatening arrhythmia._

"Prep defib!" John began CPR as Branscomb and Elster obeyed and started the automated external defibrillator. When it whined to 200 joules, the warning indicator announced "stand clear." John sat back on his haunches and waited for Branscomb to deliver the full discharge. Bane's torso lifted with the shock. John rechecked Bane's pulse. Noting both that it still lacked normal sinus rhythm and the patient was unconscious, John continued with CPR until the AED recharged.

It took four shocks to stabilize Bane and bring him round. By then, next-in-charge of operations Detective Sergeant Stuart Duran had arrived, panting from a full run, his face flushed, his eyes worried. "What do you need, Doc?"

John understood the DS's uneasy demeanor. No drill can prepare you for the sense of helplessness that hits when one of your own is struck down. "Bane needs urgent care I can't provide here. A medivac helicopter is our best chance."

"Duuurrr…an…" Bane came back to consciousness, blinked several times and tried to remove his mask so he could speak, but Elster restrained him.

"Gareth, it's air," John leant over the detective to maintain eye contact and saw alertness return to Bane's eyes. "The mask is helping you breathe. I need you not to talk right now," John passed a hand over Bane's forehead,"it'll stabilize your pulse and heartrate.

"No," the DI protested faintly, tried to rise, but thwarted by his own incapacity, he flopped back down.

"This operation's under control, Gareth. Your DS will take charge," John assured him and thumbed at the man standing behind him. "You've got good men doing their best. My job is to get you the help you need."

John patted Bane's arm reassuringly and stood. Adrenalin had served John well when performing CPR on the patient, but now his neck and shoulders were tight and feeling a bit achy from the effort. As he rolled them and shook his legs to loosen up, Sherlock approached him with head bowed in thought. He looked over at Bane.

"How serious?" He asked discreetly.

John shook his head sadly. "Only the cardiologists can answer that. If he's having a heart attack due to blockage, that's a circulation problem beyond my capabilities. Right now, his cardiac arrest responded to electrical stimulation," John shrugged, "I'm doing my best to keep him stable..."

"You'll be accompanying your patient in the helicopter to the hospital, then?" Sherlock spoke for John's ears only.

"Might have to...if medical personnel are not on board. It's good protocol ... especially as he's not in the best shape..." It struck John that it meant Sherlock and he would be parting company. He would be making a medivac rendezvous, presumably somewhere on the beach and into the helicopter, and Sherlock would be taking his collected samples out as planned by hiking to Holme Post and then back to the carpark.

"Oh, yeah, right! The car! You've got the extra keys, right?" John patted his own pockets. "Not sure which hospital they'll be taking us to... I'll have to ring you once I know."

Sherlock nodded distractedly, his focus elsewhere…on Bane. "May I have a _private_  word with him before you evacuate...?"

John eyed Sherlock suspiciously.

"To express my...umm...encouragement..."

"Seriously? Coming from you, the shock might kill him!" John's gallows humor was a measure of his own frustration.

"Or bring his heart rhythms into alignment," Sherlock replied in all seriousness. "I'll be brief. I  _promise_  not to rile him."

"I'll hold you to that, then," John nodded.

Asking the paramedics to stand back, John watched, trusting and curious, as his friend knelt beside the DI. The detective took Bane's hand to gain his attention, brought his mouth close to Bane's good ear, and spoke in a whisper so low even John could not hear his words.

Although weary from his ordeal, Bane nodded he understood Sherlock. At one point, the DI seemed to smile. With that, Sherlock stood up and backed away, not making eye contact with anyone as he moved off. The paramedics came forward to continue running tests and checking the feed-out from the mobile monitor. That Bane was no longer fidgeting from discomfort was a good sign.

John's eyes followed his friend, unsure if he were more surprised or pleased by Sherlock's kind gesture—his humanity?—but before he could pursue the matter, the radio operator sounded the alert.

"Doc! DS Duran! They're airborne!" Unit-A radio operator Hodge reported, pressing the headphones tightly to his ears to listen further, "Helicopter ambulance service is headed our way. ETA at 1445... in twelve minutes. They've determined that the beach is our closest rendezvous point."

"We can stretcher him out, D.S.," volunteered one of the TST men who carried Bane in, "but it might be a tough haul, though, through this bog and marsh."

"What about your amphibious teams in the area?" Sherlock suggested. All eyes turned to Sherlock who had come forward and was standing alongside John. "The stream we passed on the way in is adequate for motorized transport."

During their hike into Mearcstapa, Sherlock had heard the motored marine units prowling along the inlets and creeks of the marsh. While the TST and FSI units had grown immune to the white noise of the crafts, Sherlock had been irritated by their constant hum. It prevented him from more thoroughly cataloging the ambient sounds of the woodlands. Restraining his criticism, however, Sherlock only shared his observation, "The charts show this creek is a major tributary connecting to the beach."

"Sherlock's right!" John grinned, heartened by friend's solution. "Marine transport would be ideal."

"You've heard  _this_ man!" DS Duran shouted, swinging his arm in Sherlock's direction. "Contact the marine unit!"

As the TST coordinated the details with the amphibious units, Duran approached Sherlock and John. He nodded in thanks at Sherlock, then addressed John in a low voice, "Doc, how quickly will the Guv be ready for transport to the creek?"

"His condition is guarded…," John replied, surprised to see Sherlock inconspicuously backing away and withdrawing from the conversation, "…but he's stable now. With Branscomb and Elster's help, we can have him prepped and ready to evacuate in four minutes."

Once Sherlock was out of earshot, Duran shook his head and confided, "Took us on the huff, this… We didn't expect it. Good you signed on…"

"There wasn't much I could do as doctor that your paramedics weren't trained for…" John pointed out in all modesty.

"The swifter the assessment, the better the chances, and you were swift and decisive…," Duran insisted. "That counts for something...maybe everything."

"We're not out of the woods yet,  _literally_ ," John grimaced at the unavoidable pun, "but we're all pulling for the best outcome. Your team will be indispensable…"

Having learnt all he needed to know about Bane's condition, Sherlock wandered among the TST and constables to put his eavesdropping talents to better use. Intrigued by the new evidence—the discovery of human bones—Sherlock listened to the men from the armed and dog units discussing their discovery with the FSIs. Sherlock learnt that when the others evacuated Bane, several constables had remained at the scene where the remains had been found, marking the site and awaiting reinforcements. There was still a decent margin of daylight before civil twilight at 16:20 and while Bane's emergency was a temporary setback to the larger task, a new group that included several forensic scientists had already assembled to go back into the bog and begin the collection process.

"Beware of the cats, mates, big ones they are," advised one armed constable staying behind to escort Bane to the creek. The young man patted his holstered weapon. "The marsh seems to be crawling with 'em."

"Cats?" a worried FSI pulled a face.

"Don't let Jenkins scare you," another armed constable, a bit older than the first, piped up. "They're as scared of us as we of them. They're  _not_  big animals like Bengal tigers or African lions. They're smaller, more cougar than panther…and they travel alone…"

"Heard a cat mauled one of our dogs," Jenkins huffed. "Alone or in packs, Michaels, there's power in their paws. Best to keep away."

"You're an expert on big cats, are ye?" Michaels snapped with annoyance. "These cats don't travel in _packs_. They're solitary hunters. So, unless you act like prey and stimulate the cat's instinct with irresistible behaviors—like turning and running when you see one or squatting down with your back turned—they won't pounce on you."

"What makes you the expert, huh?" Jenkins sneered.

"My family!" Michaels barked a smug laugh. "Come from family of zookeepers, I do, since Queen Victoria…"

The shout-out for evacuation personnel to report halted further dispute and Jenkins headed off.

Sherlock followed.

888

Acting as a first responder John had done all that he could at the scene of the incident—including CPR and early defibrillation—to increase Bane's odds for survival. But the cause of Bane's cardiac arrest—or irregular rhythms—was still a mystery. Getting Bane to hospital to determine if there was arterial occlusion was what made their march to evacuate imperative.

Within minutes John organized a small party for the rendezvous to the creek's edge. He appointed the two paramedics, Branscomb and Elster, four TST officers to carry the DI on the stretcher, one armed constable—Sherlock recognized as young Jenkins—and Sherlock, at Sherlock's pointed request.

When Sherlock sought to join the evacuation team on the short jog to the stream and back, he had not given John a reason why, nor had John had time to ask, yet having Sherlock along had been a plus in John's mind. An extra man on an important operation was a prudent redundancy, especially when that spare had the genius-level ability for lightning solutions. Seconds after making this request, Stuart Duran had conceded that whatever the doctor wanted was golden with him.

"You realize you can't take your heavy rucksacks along? We can't let anything slow us down," John told Sherlock in a private exchange as he watched the paramedics strap Bane securely on the stretcher and recheck the leads. "You're sure you don't just want to wait here? The TST members going off shift can escort you, your precious cargo of samples, and the injured Williams to Holme Post."

"Consider me this evacuation company's wingman," Sherlock countered. There was nothing in his countenance or his voice that helped John discern the real reason.

"You know that's  _RAF_...airforce, not army terminology, right?" John acknowledged the paramedics' thumbs up with one of his own.

"Rearguard, then."

"A good wingman is simply someone who puts the needs of others before himself," John added thoughtfully before switching topics. "What about your so-called chain of evidence for your samples?" John spoke from the side of his mouth as he gave the stretcher bearers a nod to lift the patient. "Wouldn't leaving them here unattended compromise them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This isn't going to Court, John. Even so, to uphold the integrity of the samples I gathered, I have secured the rucksacks temporarily in the large forensic lockers. It will take the FSI several days to fill them to capacity before they will be carted out...I expect to retrieve my  _uncompromised_  samples straightaway upon our return... "

"Then step too it, wingman!" John commanded over his shoulder as he headed to the front of the evacuation party.

888

Mr. Sherlock Holmes had never  _actually_  met Captain John H. Watson, MD, the army surgeon who had been deployed to Afghanistan. Although time and circumstance had made that meeting impossible, Sherlock regularly encountered sterling attributes of the former Captain in the stalwart and brave companion he knew as John.

Now, as he brought up the rear of the medical evacuation team heading to rendezvous with the marine unit at the creek, Sherlock reflected on how brilliantly John had re-acclimated to field maneuvers, despite his extended periods of routine domesticity and soft civilian life.

Sherlock was impressed with his take-charge friend under the present circumstances, not because he doubted John's abilities, but because there had rarely been opportunities for him to  _observe_ the man of action in such an optimum environment.  _This_ was Captain John H. Watson—who had been lost after a shattering war injury ended his surgical career—making an appearance.

There was little question that, within the realm of medicine, Captain  _and_  Dr. John Watson had excellent observational skills. Not for the first time did Sherlock ponder if John's trust issues prevented him from trusting that those same superior skillsets for diagnoses and prognosis would be useful elsewhere, such as on a criminal investigation that required the keen observation of trifles? But that was not what John had wanted. He didn't want to be another Sherlock Holmes. John needed to be himself.

_I need this._

_Need!_  Sherlock realized that he had got it wrong earlier. John's mundane life was not the problem, except John NEEDING something more, to "run every now and then,"—NEEDING THIS—was what made benign domestic routine in the suburbs  _his_  problem. John didn't have to test his medical acumen; he did that often enough at the surgery. No. It was the thrill of the chase, this excitement, that was addictive. In sudden insight, Sherlock grasped the forces warring in John along with the doubts and desires John never articulated. THIS NEED—diagnosing and performing under extreme duress, being necessary for the successful outcome of a patient in a challenging setting… being himself, _Captain John H. Watson,_  on the battlefield.

To satisfy his "need" for this, John had had to overcome his lingering misgivings about leaving Rosie and pursuing their Mearcstapa adventure... _it's as much NEED for him as it is to me,_ Sherlock thought, _but John pays a higher price..._

Even if he could never again be that life-saving surgeon, John needed adventure to help him be himself.

888

The evacuation had been going well. Realizing the swifter their action, the better Bane's chances, the TST officers had set an admirable pace. The crunching rhythms of pounding boots that left the birch woods behind and brought them to the open air among the tall reeds was soothing to John's ear, but the loud purr of an amphibious craft as it approached the bank of the creek was the most welcoming sound.

Hailing the police marine unit, John oversaw the transfer of information and patient. Once he and the paramedics boarded the boat, they ensured that Bane was comfortable and the monitors were still properly attached. The confirmation that a doctor was on board the helicopter relieved John of that responsibility and since both Branscomb and Elster were accompanying the DI to the helicopter, John was able to sign off on his charge.

With mixed feelings, John surrendered his supervisory role. Before backing away, John leant over Bane to offer him encouragement, "You're in good hands now. You hear? You take care," he said kindly and patted the DI's hand.

Groggy, Bane mumbled behind his mask, but John was distracted by something that was tucked under the DI's clutched hand. The stretcher strap and the blanket hid it from view.

"What's this?"

Branscomb looked up and nodded, "Oh,  _that_...the DI wanted to keep it close."

"It's harmless, enough," Elster chimed in and continued reading the feeds. "A small box of girl's stationery. Guv said something about cherishing it. Don't get it, but it's doing him some good. His numbers are stable."

John made no further comment; the lump in his throat prevented him. With a warm smile he gave Bane another pat on the hand and clambered out of the craft. Standing on the muddy embankment just shy of the reeds, he signaled "clear to go" with a bob of his head that seemed more like a military salute. A turn on his heel and a few strides up the gentle slope took him to the path that cut through the tall grasses where the TST officers, the armed constable and Sherlock waited.

Catching Sherlock up, John greeted his friend with a conspiratorial grin, "I know what you did with Winnie's stationery, Sherlock."

"I merely returned the property that belonged to him," Sherlock replied, allowing John to precede him as the path narrowed to single-man width. As expected, Sherlock downplayed the gesture, but John understood its importance and was pleased that he knew and that Sherlock knew he knew. Without another word about it, they walked through the swishing grasses following the file of constables ahead.

No longer burdened by their critical patient, the seven men anticipated their return trip would be a simple trudge on the reed path back to the birch forest of Mearcstapa. There at the command post, Sherlock and John would join the constables going off shift, along with the injured Williams on the hike back to Holme Post.

The reeds whistled in the afternoon breezes; the changeable sky greyed over with a gentle mist that veiled the mid afternoon sun. As they came to a wide clearing within the scenic grassland surroundings, the officers found the natural beauty disarming. The TST officers let their guard down with light chatter and easy banter. Jenkins attempted to raise a few laughs by joking with the four men in front of him. His monkey business prompted a misstep off the cleared dirt path into the tall grass which proved calamitous. A resounding snap raised Jenkins' instant howl of distress and everyone froze—except John.

John rushed forward and squatted to examine the injured man who collapsed in fear and pain. While the other four turned back around and stared in shock at Jenkins grabbing frantically at his ankle and John crouching by his side, Sherlock was distracted by a different sound—the rustling in the reeds to his immediate left.

Poised in the tall grasses, Sherlock saw a sleek black panther, wiggling its hindquarters in readiness to pounce. John's submissive posture had triggered the animal's irrepressible instinct to attack.

_"JOHN!"_ Sherlock rushed forward as the cat leapt.

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	16. Avoidance

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_"JOHN!"_

Sherlock shouted as he charged and intercepted the bounding animal with a great leap. Calculating his sideways launch with formidable accuracy, he slammed his lean torso against the feline's ribcage. Cat and man collided in midair and repelled each other, each tumbling onto the dirt clearing and away from the intended prey. Snarling, the cat twisted as it fell and landed on its splayed feet. It hissed at the four police officers who shouted in alarm, but turned towards its assailant. Sherlock, clutching his own ribcage, was doing his human best to scramble to his feet. Doubled over and dazed, he was unable to move out of striking distance in time. Razor-sharp claws swiped at Sherlock, catching him across his shoulders and sending him sprawling.

Pivoting away from the injured Jenkins after hearing Sherlock call his name, John only saw the cat knock Sherlock to the ground.

" _SHER-LOCK!_ "

There was no time to scramble for Jenkin's holstered pistol. Instead, John leapt to his feet, shouting and waving his arms to keep the skittish wildcat away from his injured friend, then edged forward cautiously. Horrified that Sherlock lay flopped like a rag doll, John's heart was in his throat, but he managed a loud, firm, "Sherlock! I'm coming."

For a split second, yellow panther eyes assessed the intimidating human and saw the other humans behind him closing in. Instinct told it there was no kill here, and the wildcat leapt back and away, disappearing in the reeds with a final snarl.

"You four! Free Jenkins! It's a leg-hold trap! And someone get his  _bloody_  gun in case the cat comes back!" John ordered as he rushed from the wailing man toward his writhing friend.

Sherlock held his ribcage and gasped for air; he lay on his side with his drawn knees up, his eyes wide and startled.

Pulling off Sherlock's helmet, John pressed his fingertips against Sherlock's pulse point— _racing_ _!_ —and spoke with a calm he did not feel, "Okay _,_ Sherlock, okay, I'm here…"

Laboring to breathe, Sherlock gripped John's jacket sleeve in a tight fist and focused on John's face. His look conveyed his helplessness.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," John gently cupped Sherlock's face and assured him with deep conviction in his eyes, "…I've got you.  _We've_  got this! Now, lay back."

John zipped open Sherlock's jacket, noting where it had been sliced across the shoulders. He removed the stethoscope from his first-aid kit, pulled up Sherlock's shirt and listened. There were no wheezing or obstruction sounds. Next, John checked Sherlock's torso for gashes or ribcage punctures.  _Intact!_  The raw claw marks across Sherlock's shoulders were bleeding but not profusely; fortunately, the cat had not completely penetrated the tough jacket fabric nor sliced the skin too deeply and missed Sherlock's neck entirely. Finding no other punctures or rib contusions, John had to guess… _hope_ ….

"Wind's been knocked out of you! That's it, breathe, Sherlock, one deep slow breath at a time. Now, need you to sit up," John used the height advantage of his vertical kneel to hook Sherlock under the arms, mindful of the cuts across his injured back, and to hoist him to a sitting position. Once Sherlock was up, John sat back on his haunches and cradled Sherlock against his own thudding chest, waiting for nature to take its course.

Gasping, Sherlock leant against his friend for support, feeling John's elevated heartbeats despite such commanding calm—the body's responses betraying John's pretense—and focused on the urgent task. Each expansive breath filled Sherlock's lungs with air and encouraged the muscles of his paralyzed diaphragm to start working again. Doing his best to ignore the stinging wounds across his back and the sharp pain in his left side—where he had collided with the cat—Sherlock attempted a few more deep breaths and pushed off from John in a feeble attempt to stand.

"Sherlock, don't rush this," John objected firmly. "It can take as long as fifteen minutes...you need more time."

Discovering his mistake and that John was right, Sherlock sank down again but too abruptly. Shooting pains made him gasp and see stars. Guarding his left side with his arm, he settled down and gently took shallower breaths, grateful he could sit up without assistance.

"Here," John opened his first-aid kit again, removed antiseptic spray and gauze, and activated a cold press. "Think you may have fractured a rib or two; keeping it cold will help. Still, I want to keep an eye on it… Let me know if you need something for the pain…," John pressed the cold pack over Sherlock's shirt and loosely bound it in place with bandage. After, he sprayed povidine-iodine on the gauze and gingerly patted the bloodiest scratches. "There, that will do for now, 'til we get to the command post," he said at last, giving Sherlock a kindhearted grin, "Not too bad…considering you were attacked by…by…a Fen Tiger—"

John did not expect a verbal reply from Sherlock. The constricted diaphragm was still impacting Sherlock's normal breathing and making speech difficult, but something about Sherlock's dismissive nod and the way he avoided eye contact puzzled John. He again sat back on his haunches and sized up his friend _._  He was unsure of what had  _actually_  gone on behind his back after he stooped to assess Jenkins. He had heard Sherlock shout his name and then scuffling sounds.

"You  _weren't_ attacked by the cat, then …?" John brows furrowed. A crazy thought germinated, "…No!... wait, don't tell me…You attacked  _it_?"

"If you don't want me to tell you," Sherlock wheezed, "why do you ask?" He smoothed out his shirt rather than meet John's disapproval.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock! What did you  _bloody_  think you were doing? Do you have some kind of  _death_ wish…?" John's exasperation was clearly derived from his assumptions, ill-informed as they were.

Even had he been able to, Sherlock didn't want to discuss it. He would have told John to drop it, but he wasn't going to waste his breath trying to explain, especially as every deep inhalation hurt like hell. Irritated by John's tedious incomprehension, Sherlock answered his friend with a scowl.

"Why would you wrestle a wildcat?" John's eyes narrowed suspiciously and as quickly the realization, based upon history— _their_  history—opened them wide. "OH!" Whenever Sherlock had done something harebrained that risked his life, it was—John cringed, hissing quietly—"…to save me?" He hated when he was the cause of yet another of Sherlock's calamities. "No, no, no, no!" his volcanic temper erupted.

Dealing with John's emotional overreaction made his breathing difficulties and rib pain suddenly the lesser of Sherlock's problems. In a feeble, see-through attempt to duck the escalating tirade, Sherlock fumbled with the jacket zipper, but sitting as he was, he could not join the teeth and gave up.

" _WHAT'S GOING ON UP THERE_?" John poked his own temple with his finger, demanding so loudly that the Tactical Support Team officers still working to free the sniveling Jenkins thought John was addressing them.

"It's a bit rusted, sir!" One of the men shouted back from yards away, "but we've got the spring lubricated. We're about ready to reset the jaws and Jenkins should be out. Just a few minutes more."

"Fine!" John growled back; his voice was sharp with aggravation, mostly from worry over his insane friend. " _Dammit_ , Sherlock!" John chided in a hoarse whisper. "How is this  _my_  fault?"

Sherlock took a painful deep inhale and tried to answer in one breath, "You crouched down…with your back exposed…which triggered the cat's instinct… to attack."

John's jaw tightened at hearing this.

"But …I'm perfectly  _FINE now!"_ Sherlock insisted and winced again, giving his words the lie.

Speechless—as if the wind had been knocked out of him—John pinched the bridge of his nose in dismay. The extent to which Sherlock took risks to protect him was alarming. At one time, John had thought associating with Sherlock would be dangerous for  _him_ , but it seemed Sherlock was vulnerable  _because_  John was his pressure point—his Achilles' heel. John needed to protect Sherlock from being so protective of him…. When John found his voice, it was tight with emotion. "Stop it, stop  _this_  now…You can't keep—"

"—Your back was turned, John," Sherlock softly interrupted after he had drawn a deep breath. The next words came out on a long exhale. "You needed a… wingman …"

John's face twisted, "Right, …then," he squeezed Sherlock's forearm in profound gratitude and stood up quickly, his back to Sherlock to compose himself.

Sherlock peered up at his friend but waited before thumping John's knee for assistance to stand. His bruised ribs complicated the maneuver, but Sherlock submitted to John's physical support. Once upright, Sherlock stooped to relieve the strain on his chest, hugged the cold press tight with his left arm, and stifled his groans.

John threaded his arm through the crook of Sherlock's elbow to stabilize him. "Can you walk?"

This was the question the TST officer overheard as he approached the two men. "Jenkins is free, sir. A bit bruised but he's okay. We can assist him back to the command post but," his eyes darted toward Sherlock who had tugged his elbow indignantly away from John, "shall I call ahead to alert the medics for your friend?"

"Don't need a medic —" Sherlock retorted before an involuntary cough interrupted him. He hugged his side tighter, held his breath, and after a slight pause, finished his imperious refusal behind gritted teeth, "—when I've got  _my_ doctor..."

John thought he heard "you idiot!" under Sherlock's gasp of pain. "Thanks," John answered the officer, "I think we've got this for now. I'll keep you updated if matters change."

"I can walk, John, " Sherlock insisted when the TST was out of earshot. "Give me time…I've had fractured ribs before…"

Good as his word, Sherlock took a few moments to determine how to move with less pain—which John knew was more a mind-over-matter thing when it came to bruised ribs—but Sherlock proved he was up to the challenge. He appeared steady on his feet and ready to head back to the command post. While Jenkins hobbled with his bruised ankle supported by two TST officers, Sherlock walked with an almost-fluid gait. His act may have fooled the constables, but John stayed by his side for support, aware that his friend was disguising the extent of his injury. Occasionally John heard the small hisses and gasps of discomfort from Sherlock but no verbalized complaints.

_...fractured ribs before…breaking point under torture is high…_ whispered in John's mind again.

Upon arriving at Mearcstapa, John directed the officers to seat the injured Jenkins for an examination. He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve and said quietly, "Don't think you're going anywhere just yet. Have a seat, too. Bleeding injuries take precedence in triage." He received a frown in reply.

"Doc," the radio operator interrupted before John could enforce his order. "The rendezvous was a success! DI Bane has been airlifted. They're reporting he's still stable."

John nodded at the operator and smiled in relief, "Do you know where they're taking him?"

"Fenshire District Hospital. ETA by 1520."

Sherlock and John exchanged looks. "It would be a cruel irony if he shared the same ward as Cain," Sherlock noted in a whisper to John and then, disregarding his doctor's mandate, went to retrieve his rucksacks.

"Hey—"John's brief grin disappeared as he watched. There was a slight sway of fatigue in Sherlock's step and stiffness in his shoulders. To John's practiced eye, the act that "all was fine" was crumbling. John turned to Jenkins, "Be right back," he said.

John followed Sherlock and called in a low voice, addressing the back of the stubborn man who continued to walk ahead of him, "Sherlock…"

Sherlock stopped, but did not immediately turn around. When he did, he used his whole body, not just a swivel of his head or a twist of his torso. The look on his face was neutral, too neutral.

"…. I can check your injuries more thoroughly here, especially those scratches. It will take only a few minutes…"

"Not necessary," Sherlock turned back around in his bid for the forensic locker.

"Now don't go on being a hero…" John warned, catching him up in several swift steps.

Sherlock pulled a face.

"…And ignore any severe pain, bruising or tenderness…those are signs of internal bleeding…"

"This is tedious!" Sherlock snapped irritably."If I believed I were in serious jeopardy, I would accept immediate medical help. I'm fine, John!"

"That's for me to decide," John countered, "which I can't do until you let me check you."

Sherlock's blunt refusal surprised John. There was no disputing that Sherlock possessed extraordinary qualities in nearly all areas, but when it came to medicine, Sherlock had always deferred to John as the superior authority. In the past, Sherlock as the consummate reasoner would accept medical help when he needed it—especially if John was offering. While it was true that upon his cursory examine of Sherlock's injuries, John had not seen anything alarming, he preferred verifying his prognosis under better conditions which the command post afforded.

"John, you're overreacting," Sherlock sighed wearily, "Superficial scratches do not necessitate urgent care or even stitches or you would have suggested that earlier when you saw them initially. As for fractured ribs, they heal on their own. As you can see, I am managing. It's painful, but not unendurable. It's time to move out," Sherlock winced as his attempted to pull his rucksacks, heavy with forensic samples, from the forensic locker. "We've had enough delays. We need to push on, now! Later, if it becomes a nuisance, I will visit at a clinic or surgery in London. You need not be inconvenienced."

This time it was unmistakable; John felt the sting of Sherlock's rejection. "Seriously?" John glared, his strong hand thwarting Sherlock's attempt to pull the rucksacks free, "Didn't you once tell Lestrade 'only a fool argues with his doctor?'"

"If you recall," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly while diverting his gaze, "you're not my doctor, you've not been for quite some time—"

John recoiled, struck hard by the truth he already knew—they had not resumed their doctor-patient relationship, not since Sherlock had returned from the dead. John pushed those thoughts aside to continue the present argument. "What's this all about? Back there, you called me  _your_  doctor!"

"Merely avoiding the unnecessary redundancy of another assessment," Sherlock scoffed doing his best to avoid seeing John's offended expression. "Mostly, I fear, John, your medical judgement is clouded by emotions when it comes to me. There's too much baggage between us."

"Huh?" John pulled back in disbelief. "What you're saying makes no sense. If I didn't know better, I'd say the Fen Tiger gave you a concussion, not bruised ribs."

"You see. My point exactly!" Sherlock grinned as if he found it humorous. "Your judgement is questionable..."

"Sod this, Sherlock," John barked, not amused despite his reciprocal grin. He shook his head, refusing to interpret Sherlock's rebuff as a slap in the face. "If you won't sit down for me, I'll assign a medic. Either way, you will be checked before we leave. Is that clear?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And, you will  _not_  carry either of those rucksacks. If you insist on being an idiot, I  _will_  call in some favors and have you carried bodily all the way to Holme Post…maybe even out to the carpark."

Sherlock noted the dark menace in John's eyes. He had given John just provocation to be seriously angry, but Sherlock's objective had been met—John would not be examining him. He lifted one expressive eyebrow of assent and gave a begrudging nod.

"Fine!" John threw Sherlock a peculiar look and quickly cut his glance away, "Now, humor me. Go over there and sit," he pointed to a chair beside Jenkins at the first-aid table. "I'll have the medic make sure the bleeding has stopped, maybe apply a plaster or two and use some KT Tape for your bruised ribs..."

Sherlock attempted to step away, but John suddenly caught him by the wrist, preventing him from moving.

John leant in close and spoke in a hoarse whisper, "One other thing, Sherlock. I will get to the bottom of this. Whatever 'this' is you're up to. I've got a thick skin now. I'm a bit wiser since you decided to ditch me for two years. And Mary had taught me a thing or two about your games. I think I know when I'm being conned." Releasing his grip, John went to examine Jenkins.

888

The group plodded back to the police encampment in Holme Post—the first leg of their return trip—hampered by the assistance Jenkins' and Williams' ankle injuries required. As eager as John was to reach the post he was also grateful the pace was slow enough for Sherlock who had wanted no special treatment. Although playing down his discomfort, Sherlock would have found it much more difficult had they hiked at a more rigorous clip.

Obeying doctor's orders, Sherlock did not carry the forensic samples although he insisted on one stipulation: whoever carried for him had to stay close. He did not like the idea of the samples being out of his sight. One rucksack was assigned to a constable, hand-picked by Sherlock, and the other rucksack, John shouldered.

While the medic concurred with John's diagnosis and Sherlock's self-diagnosis—minor fractured ribs and superficial scratches—John was less peeved by Sherlock's slight the longer he thought about it. He had learnt the hard way that the more Sherlock pushed him away, the more Sherlock was trying to hide something from him. By rebuffing John's medical attention, Sherlock had piqued John's curiosity, but during the hike out John pondered the puzzle with little success.

Winding back from Mearcstapa, their small party made a brief stop at Holme Post to disband and regroup. Some constables were given leave to take the evening off so as to be fresh for morning maneuvers; others went back on duty and were dispatched to Mearcstapa to continue the nighttime detail under balloon lights. During their stop, John had had the radio operator call ahead to several local clinics and schedule x-rays for the injured men.

A small contingent of officers and paramedics was appointed to assist Sherlock, John, Jenkins, and Williams to the Nature Reserve carpark along with two additional injured men. One constable had suffered from an adder bite and although immediately treated with antivenon, he still required urgent follow-up care. Another officer had been pierced through his hand by an arrow and was in need a skilled hand surgeon. John checked to make sure the man's hand had been properly wrapped in preparation for transport and that he was comfortable but there was little the former army surgeon could do for him—even if he had not lost his surgical abilities to a nerve-damaging bullet—as the orthopedic techniques to restore hand functionality had advanced since John was at St. Bart's.

Grey mist swirled and spiraled up from the moist peat soil to engulf the orange sun that sat low in the western sky. Finally admitting to fatigue, John was not sorry to leave the rustic marshes and woodlands behind. When he spotted the carpark where the emergency vehicles and his Audi were waiting, he felt genuinely relieved. An operation that took nearly twelve hours now felt as if it had lasted days.  _Amazing days!_

The paramedics met them with stretchers. After hours of boredom, they were overly eager to herd the injured or any person who looked injured. Once John had signed off on Williams and Jenkins, he turned around to look for Sherlock and spotted him backing away from a particularly enthusiastic paramedic.

"This way, sir," she hailed cheerfully with sweet demeanor and bright eyes. "Have a seat. I'll take care of you."

Before Sherlock's glare could do permanent damage to her self-confidence, John stepped forward to intervene. "Sorry. No. He's with me. But thank you anyway." He gave her a kindly smile and guided Sherlock away to his car. Signaling the constable with the second forensic rucksack to follow, John unlocked the Audi and both loaded the rucksacks in the boot. With a firm handshake, John conveyed his thanks to the constable and acknowledged his indispensable assistance, whereby they exchanged appreciative grins and parted company.

While Sherlock cautiously climbed into the car, John ducked behind the drivewheel and muttered firmly from one side of his mouth, "You know you're keeping your appointment with the radiologist."

Sherlock grimaced and clutched his side as he eased himself into the seat; Noting this,John did not feel he needed to argue his point further. Sherlock's ribs were doing the talking for him

When his panting subsided, Sherlock hissed, "Of course, John. I'm curious to know the degree of injury as it may help me determine how soon I can get back to work—" The pain from twisting and bending to latch his restraint caught Sherlock in midsentence. While John helped him, he concluded through clenched teeth, "I concur with your advice."

John threw him a sly look and started the car, "Oh, so suddenly my judgement is not clouded by emotion?"

Sherlock grimaced, but this time it was not from physical pain. John's point was clear, though it was not a topic Sherlock wished to further, so he kept silent.

And John let it slide. He had more pressing things on his mind. Night was approaching and so, too, came the ubiquitous fog, but John was not as anxious about it as he had been that morning. The Audi bumped and swerved along the dirt road—Sherlock sometimes gasped, other times stifled his groans—but soon they were on the smooth pavement and heading south to Thornham and beyond, to the x-ray clinic. While Sherlock was getting x-rayed, John rang both the FDH to check on Bane's condition and home to update Erika. Confirming that his toddler was in bed, John smiled at the mental image of Rosie's cherub face as she slumbered. The sweet ache of missing her smile, her voice, everything about her, clutched at his heart, making him thankful to be heading back.

It was several hours later, after Sherlock had completed his chest x-ray and they had stopped for supper, provisions, and coffee, that they climbed back into the car. John had been factoring the mileage for several minutes when he remarked, "It's lucky you built a second overnight stay into the plan," he said to Sherlock. "By the time we get back, it may well be past midnight."

Sherlock looked up distractedly from his smartphone. He had been catching up on texts and emails. "It was not luck, John. I once told Mycroft that if you could attend to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable. As inevitable as mathematics—"

"—So, you're what?" John interrupted, "Six-feet tall and approximately 12.5 stone?" He kept his eyes front, staring at the road lit by the headlamps. There was little possibility that a Fen Tiger might leap out from the darkness in these more populated areas, but John was on guard just the same.

"Hmmm?"

"The future, Sherlock, you said it can be entirely calculable…like math?" John asked.

"If I had sufficient data …" Sherlock replied, puzzled by John's disjointed thought processes.

"So you didn't necessarily know ...calculate. _.._  that there would be a cat attack when you chose to be a… wingman?" John finished in his head _, a wingman_   _protecting me_ _for_ _Rosie._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he glanced toward John. "Not know…I didn't have all the data, but the probability was high and there was some reason to be concerned."

John nodded as if he understood. "How much would you say the cat weighed? The one you tackled?"

"I didn't  _tackle_  it, John!" Sherlock protested in frustration and immediately regretted the rib motion it caused. "As it was focused on you, I merely blindsided it."

"With your body…?"

"Yes. There was no time to grab anything else or distract it in some way. But you have raised an interesting question, John, about how much it weighed," Sherlock steepled his fingers against his lips. "In recollection, I estimate that the animal was over 13 stone, so it is no wonder it got the better of me when I tried to deflect it's trajectory …however, we must also calculate the direction of force and velocity when we made contact—"

" —Thank you," John interrupted again, adding softly, "for today...with the Fen Tiger!"

Sherlock stopped, startled. Even though the sentiment was always understood, Sherlock was moved by hearing John say it. He nodded once in acknowledgement and smiled at the darkness outside the window.

John chuckled to himself; had he known that those words could shut Sherlock up, he would have used them far earlier in their acquaintance and far more frequently.

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* * *

Dear Readers, two more chapters to go... Perhaps, some of you noticed the homage in this story to ACD's  _The Dying Detective_  when Holmes spurned Dr. Watson's medical attention...More explanations await. To all of you who have offered encouragement in reviews throughout, I particularly thank you for your thoughtfulness, a gift I greatly appreciated.


	17. The Epilogue Part One

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"Sherlock?" John poked his head inside and called politely after gently rapping his knuckles on the doorjamb of 221B.

Standing in the kitchen with his goggles over his eyes, Sherlock looked up from the sizzling material in the occlude clamps that he had just removed from the Bunsen burner flame.  _"_ John! _"_  There was such unmasked delight in his voice it triggered John's full smile. "Yes. Yes. Come in. This is unexpected. Do come in. Just finishing up!"

"Don't rush on my account," John protested, hesitating in the threshold. "I should've rung ahead."

"What, no Rosie?" Sherlock said pleasantly, cooling the specimen in water. It hissed and released a plume of steam.

The sudden terrible stench from Sherlock's experiment made John glad he hadn't brought Rosie. "No. She's with Erika…at Tots Storytime…in the library center…" John trailed; the preoccupied scientist wasn't really listening. "Hope that's not dinner. Smells awful," John cracked and wandered in, looking about the familiar clutter in the sitting room. "Poor Mrs. Hudson may pass out from the fumes."

"Fumes? She's used to fumes …," Sherlock commented distractedly as he jotted notes in his lab journal, unware that John had already shut the flat door and was throwing open the sash of the large window overlooking Baker Street. It was a mild November afternoon and the air was fresh but not cold.

"Much better," John coughed and poked his head outside for one cleansing breath.

"Done!" Sherlock exclaimed. He sealed the vial that contained the charred remnant of his odoriferous experiment and shut off the burner. "The air will clear in minutes now, John," he said as he slid the goggles over his head and peeled off his gloves. Leaving his beige dressing gown open—underneath he wore a pressed buttoned-down dress shirt in pale blue and his dark trousers—Sherlock patted the pockets, reassuring himself of the items they contained without removing their contents.

"This project," John pointed at the kitchen table heaped with lab equipment, "is it from the samples you retrieved from Mearcstapa?"

An excited twinkle lit Sherlock's eyes. "Oh, this? No. It's something I found on the street coming home… I thought it would be interesting…. However, those samples you're referring to are safely stored—got special permission, Mycroft pulled a few strings—in the lab at St. Bart's."

"You're not working on Winnie's specimens, then?" John was surprised.

"But, I am. Been staying in the lab at St. Bart's for days. I got a bit ripe, apparently; Molly insisted I come home this morning…. Anyway, you know, ' _a watched pot never boils.'_ Some of the tests have to incubate, as it is…. I am pleased to say all those lovely specimens should keep me busy for months!"

"Seriously?" John had not seen Sherlock this happy since…since…he couldn't remember when.

"Yes, John. I am looking forward to cataloguing the natural toxins and poisons she concocted in an attempt to kill her husband. I expect there will be a publishable paper on it by the time I'm through. Even though she did not immediately succeed with Cain—I have to agree with you that his physiology is quite singular—she could probably have taught expert assassins a thing or two about deadly potions."

Sherlock swiveled stiffly in the direction of the kettle. Clutching briefly at his left side, he pushed past the painful twinge. It had not yet been a week since their return from their fenland adventure and it ached considerably if he twisted too fast.

"Tea?" he asked John hopefully, although he would not have been surprised if John declined. The doctor was dressed in business attire—suit and tie—not his usual wear for the clinic. There was high probability that John was attending a medical conference nearby, rubbing elbows with colleagues, and had taken advantage of the brief lull in the lecture series for his visit; there might not be time for tea.

John hesitated, glanced at his watch and shrugged, "Sure, why not? I can miss this one. Can't be long, though," and joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

Sherlock hid his pleased grin as he pulled two mismatched mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the worktop. He shoved his lab equipment to clear one side of the kitchen table and gestured John to sit.

"Thought I'd pop over since I'm in the area," John accepted the designated chair. "The University College Hospital Education Centre is giving lectures …," he waved away the explanation with a dismissive hand and switched to the real topic he wanted to discuss. "Wondered if you heard the news from Fenshire District Hospital," John stared at the kettle as if by looking at it he could help it heat faster.

"Yes…about Cain and Bane," Sherlock leant back against the worktop to face John.

"Yeah. Dr. Rath called me this morning. I was sorry, disappointed even, to hear about Bane," John looked glum.

Sherlock studied his friend. "Not second guessing how you handled his care, are you?" Sherlock tried again when John seemed too distracted to answer, "Are you, Captain Watson?"

Surprised at being addressed as "Captain," John met Sherlock's resolute stare before memories swept his glance away. He had always been proud of serving his country, sharing the commitment with his brothers-in-arms who risked their lives for the greater good. There was personal pride in his achievements, too. He had worked his ass off during medical training and had earned the rank of Captain. Even now, his emotions stirred to the sound of  _Captain_ affixed to his name, it reminded him of how necessary he had once been to a cause that was far greater than himself. " _We are soldiers,"_ John had told Mycroft in Sherrinford " _…and that means to HELL what happens to us."_

Those words had not come lightly; John had spoken from experience. Captain John H. Watson knew first-hand the HELL of enemy fire that had destroyed his shoulder and surgical career; subsequently he had lived in hellish deprivation of the brotherhood he had cared most about while mood-altering PTSD had fractured his self-worth. This loss of all he knew, of what he had sorely needed in order to feel alive, had been so great that the army therapists could not raise his fallen spirits. Invalided, he had returned to civilian life, but returned to  _what_ exactly?...reduced circumstances, living in a spare bedsit and being unable to afford a flat in London on his meager Army pension.

 _"I was so alone…."_  Isolation had perpetuated hopelessness, uselessness had weakened his resolve. Dark thoughts had led him astray. John had struggled against his death wish in the shape of the cold weapon in the drawer. He had resisted its promise of a quick solution to his desolation—an instant of searing warmth, and afterwards, a place of dishonor on a sorry list of statistics. But every day, this different but still deadly call-to-arms had been becoming stronger...

…Until the lunatic consulting detective he barely knew had seen a purpose for him once more:

 _"Y_ o _u're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."_

_"Yes."_

_"Any good?"_

_"Very good."_

How Sherlock had liked the confidence of that answer.

_"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."_

_"Mmm, yes._

_"Bit of trouble too, I bet."_

_"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."_

_"Wanna see some more?"_

_"Oh God, yes."_

While Sherlock could not have known what John really needed back then, in that instant the self-worth of  _Doctor_  Watson had skyrocketed and his sense of purpose, Captain or not, revived. Their partnership thrived because, working together, each had their needs met which kept their private melancholies at bay. And even after, when John believed the man who had saved him lay buried beneath the tombstone, John had found the courage to persevere; The genius best friend had given him another chance at life— _"I owe you so much…"_ —and he was loathe to squander it.

It took scant seconds for John's thoughts to run their course before he replied to Sherlock's question, "No. Not second guessing about Bane," John met the laser scrutiny with a sheepish grin. "The FDH workup was thorough. Rath told me there was little really that they could do, although a person in better shape might have been a candidate for a bypass procedure...except, Gareth Bane was a ticking time bomb,...metastasized lung cancer, too. Apparently he had been unaware. Yeah. Awful really."

The water in the kettle was nearing perfect-tea temperature but Sherlock continue to hold John with an appraising stare. "You know you kept him alive, a significant challenge I might add, as he obviously was killing himself with his careless habits, not to mention his obsession."

"Still, it's upsetting when the patient dies—"John admitted, thinking:  _Not everyone gets another chance at life._

"I know people like to believe the dead are at peace," Sherlock was treading in uncomfortable territory, but since Mary's death even he had wished he could believe there was something more after death. "What's certain, Bane is no longer haunted by the demons of his past."

Although he nodded in agreement, John eyes dimmed with thoughts of Mary.

"Anyway," Sherlock changed the subject and turned to pour the water over the tea bags, "I though you wanted to discuss the _circumstances_  surrounding their deaths…?"

"What do you mean?" John accepted his mug and dipped the bag several times before letting it brew.

"I rang Dr. Spencer to inquire," Sherlock slid into the seat opposite John. "She told me details about Cain's death. She agreed it was not unexpected and assured me it was all aboveboard."

"Okay…why wouldn't it be? Is there something else?" John blew at the steam.

"Well, nearly twenty minutes before Cain died, the sisters found Bane in the stairway of the ICU ward. He had collapsed. They brought him round, but he was mum about why he was there rather than on the floor above in the Cardiac Ward."

"Huh!" John rubbed his nose in thought. Sherlock's insinuation that Bane was in unexpected proximity to Cain's ward was obvious, but John was unwilling to jump to conclusions. "Hmm. Was he looking for a place to sneak a smoke? Many cardiac patients with nicotine habits insist on doing the very thing that's killing them," John offered in Bane's defense. "Lost his way, perhaps, trying to get outside? Or like some desperate patients, thought he could smoke undetected in the stairwells…?"

"That doesn't sound like Bane. He wasn't an idiot," Sherlock scoffed, puzzled why John had become Bane's staunch defender. "Actually, those are lame arguments, John. Especially since he had no cigarettes on him when he was found and he couldn't remember why he was one floor below the Cardiac Ward."

"A patient in his condition can have blackouts. And who's to say he hadn't just finished smoking his last cigarette when he collapsed," John frowned, aware of how inane he sounded. He pushed back in his chair in frustration. "What are you saying, Sherlock? You really think Bane caused Cain's death?"

Sherlock peered at John through the steam; the vapor could not veil the intrigue glistening in his eyes, "Bane read Winnie's letter; he was aware of her deathbed wish. Of course, after Bane identified Cain we left, unable to speak to him because he was comatose—  ** _"_**

"—You know as well as I do, Sherlock," John interrupted, irritable and dismayed, "that comatose patients retain their hearing. They can understand what's being said. That's why I had us talk in the hall after we saw him."

"Yes. Professional ethics prevented us from telling him about Winnie's plot against him," Sherlock folded his arms and leant back in his chair, flashing John a discerning look. "No, John. I don't think Bane tried to kill him physically, but we have proof he went to see Cain…"

John felt perplexed, bothered by the idea of vengeance. "Patient privacy prevents room surveillance," he noted, "but I assume the hall cameras picked something up, then?"

"Yes! Sorry, John! The security cameras in the corridors caught it all on video…damning circumstantial evidence to be sure," Sherlock answered. "Bane left the Cardiac Ward via the stairs and descended to ICU. He stopped at the floor desk and chatted with the woman questioning him, but a Code Alert for another patient had everyone rushing to assist elsewhere. Peculiarly well-timed, as this happened when they were a bit short-staffed, of course. Bane saw an opportunity and ducked into Cain's room. We can't know what Bane said to Cain, but we do know he was there for hardly a minute. He left the room and headed to the same stairwell where he was found later."

"Okay," John threw his hands up in resignation, "What are you proposing happened?"

"I've said this before: 'bitterness is a paralytic, but love is a much more vicious motivator.' Winnie had written on her 'cherished' stationery ' ** _yew may tell him I sent yew for justice sake._** '—the note paper young Gary had given her as a goodbye gift, which she kept for sentimental reasons. Learning this—my fault I'm afraid when I gave him the stationery box _, 'no good deed goes unpunished'_ —Bane became motivated to fulfill her request." Sherlock closed his eyes as if he could see the events unfolding behind his lids. "Bane whispered into Cain's ear and told him about the police raid at Mearcstapa. Maybe he let him know the FDH was the Old Brunehelm and he was back in that childhood place of torture. And how upset do you think Cain would be learning that Winnie, the only woman he could love, had been trying to kill him for nearly twenty years—that she wished him dead? If you remember, John, Dr. Spencer had mentioned that Cain was 'unwilling to die…fighting tooth and nail.' But something unloosened that tenacity for life. I'd say telling a comatose patient disheartening news wouldn't have taken long, but it could've been the straw that broke—"

"—You think Bane caused Cain's death by...," John's jaw jutted as the thought struck him, "...breaking his heart?"

"Breaking his spirit...but breaking his heart! Hmmm. That thought never occurred," Sherlock grinned. "Even so, wouldn't that be extraordinary? Poison couldn't kill him off, but words could!"

"Science has proven that Broken-Heart Syndrome is real, but...," John mulled, shaking his head in disbelief, "aren't you always reminding everyone that ' _it's a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the facts_?'"

"Yes, yes. I know, John." Sherlock chuckled softly. "In the role of devil's advocate, I'm afraid. This is all wild speculation based upon circumstantial evidence but I've also said that ' _when you have excluded the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_ "

John nodded his head sadly. "I spoke to Bane yesterday morning, hours before he died, asking how he was doing. He sounded good, content. His voice was relaxed. I thought he might've been on meds; he seemed at peace. He conceded knowing about Cain's death, Sherlock. He said he knew days before he got confirmation from housekeeping that the 'big monster man' had died."

"That's as much an admission of guilt, John. He knew because he caused it."

"That's not what he said. He admitted to being startled one night by Cain standing in the hall outside his room, except after his double-take, it turned out to be a sister coming to check his monitors. Another time, he woke in a cold sweat and could swear Cain was standing over his bed, but an instant later, before he could ring the alarm, he realized no one was there."

" _'A guilty conscience needs no accuser_.' He saw because it was weighing on his mind."

"Stop!" John dismissed Sherlock's remark with a wave of his hand. "There's more. Bane spoke about those spooky Old Brumehelm legends … 'ghosts of the tormented, roaming the halls,'" John hesitated, his eyes met Sherlock's briefly, then darted away. "Yeah; I know the brain plays tricks when you're sick or dying. Maybe it was his meds, but he believed he was seeing Cain's ghost. He claimed that's why he knew Cain was dead even before he'd overhead the cleaning staff." John looked rattled and took a reassuring sip of his tea. "I was concerned by his account because he seemed serious."

Sherlock eyed his friend over his lifted mug, "Rest assured. There are no ghosts in this world…save those we make for ourselves."

"…but if Bane believed…," John cupped his hands around the mug and stared at its contents, "I wonder if this belief was his undoing. The heart is particularly vulnerable to surges of adrenaline. Bane had already experienced a stress-induced heart attack. What if Bane died of fright after being confronted by what he believed was the ghost of Harmen G. Cain? Fear can be fatal…"

"—Interesting, John," Sherlock tented his index fingers and tapped them against his lips. "Cain may have got his revenge, at least in the form of Bane's delusion? Is that what you're proposing?"

"Maybe," John shrugged, "maybe not. I'd rather believe this was all mere coincidence."

"Such is the problem of your vivid imagination, John. There is no reason to see this as a Gothic horror tale. It's more simple and human than that, and rooted in fact. Think about it. Once Cain died, Bane had had his revenge and the DI's reason for living died, too. With his task fulfilled, his goal met, Bane died on his own terms. End of story." Sherlock summarized somberly.

"Still, we don't know if Bane really taunted Cain on his death bed," John refuted. "We could've got it all wrong. Maybe the DI had a change of heart...What if Bane were  _forgiving_  him—?"

888**888

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	18. The Epilogue Part Two

**_The Last Words_ **

888**888

"FOR- _giving_  him?" Sherlock laughed his surprise at John's unexpected suggestion and immediately regretted it. Clutching his side an instant later, he squelched the amusement that caused his pain and held his breath.

"Sorry! Sorry!" John grinned sympathetically and came round to Sherlock's chair. "Obviously your ribs are still sore. How's the tape holding up? May I check?"

Sherlock thought to refuse, but the earnest expression on his friend's face persuaded him to unbutton and pull open his shirt.

John leant close over the taped ribcage, poked gently and seemed satisfied by what he saw. "What about the scratches?" Pulling back Sherlock's loosened shirt and dressing gown collars, he noted the panther wounds were no longer the vibrant red tears that had been unmistakable even in the muted daylight at Mearcstapa _._ Under the bright glare of the overhead kitchen light, John saw they were scabbing over well. However, he saw something else—scars—crisscrossing along Sherlock's back and down between his shoulder blades. Jolted by the sight of them, John recalled Sherlock's remarks at Mearcstapa:  _"...had fractured ribs before…breaking point under torture is high…"_

The skin had healed from the lashings years ago, but the sight of the pale pinkish scars and raised welts—which he had never seen before, much less examined—galvanized John's thoughts in an instant. Here was startling confirmation of the torture Sherlock had endured for him, torment Sherlock had kept private from John in the aftermath of his return. Although Sherlock had long conceded that John had wrongfully suffered in his absence, how little John actually knew about what really happened when Sherlock had "died." Unsettled by this evidence, disquieted by his lapse in understanding the full extent of the sacrifices his best friend had made for him, John was momentarily dumbstruck.

Sherlock's return had been emotionally conflicting for John on so many levels. Yet, it took only a tad nudge from Mary for John to whole-heartedly welcome his friend back in his life—setting aside the serious blow to his trust—and make peace with him, forgive him, choose him for his best man. Everyone assumed the doctor-patient relationship had been reestablished as well, but like Sherlock had mentioned in Mearcstapa, this was not the case. Yet, John could never quite explain, even to Mary, why he hadn't continued as Sherlock's personal doctor. Nor had Sherlock asked him to resume the role. Of course, they never talked about it. Married life and baby-on-the-way were adequate excuses for them both. Juggling responsibilities of family had left less room for Sherlock in John's life and Sherlock had seemed to want it that way.

Even when Sherlock had been rushed into the operating theatre with a critical gunshot wound, John had no medical authority to be there. The hurried surgeons had granted him professional courtesy to observe from the surgical observation deck. And as their efforts failed to resuscitate Sherlock, John experienced a second time the sinking feeling of irretrievable loss. His realization that he had become an outsider and onlooker in Sherlock's life was overridden by profound remorse. His heart twisted when Sherlock flat lined—pronounced clinically dead by the disheartened surgeons. Fearing that he had lost his friend—this was no _magic trick_ —John saw his chance for genuine reconciliation die. John's knees buckled, his hand slapped against the observation window in distress at what he could never repair, his mind screaming,  _No, Sherlock! Please, no!_ while memories of voices flitted through his mind: _"I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."_

_"I heard you."_

And then, as if Sherlock  _had_  heard him, the heart monitors beeped, then spiked back to rhythmic life, bringing the surgical staff back to manic activity. Elated and limp with relief, John saw it as a second miracle from his extraordinary friend. Not everyone gets more chances at life, but Sherlock had given then both yet another chance _. If you pull through this, Sherlock,_ John promised himself and his friend _, I won't make this mistake again…I will make amends..._.

Except…Mary's inconceivable betrayal and Sherlock's subsequent desperate act had derailed opportunities to make amends. In a cascade of consequences, there was first Sherlock's exile, then his reprieve, followed by Rosie's birth, then Mary's death. Despairing grief and isolation, a murder attempt from a serial killer, Sherlock's unexpectedly tender and compassionate consolation for Mary's loss, then more harrowing revelations from Sherlock's troubled past followed in dizzying short order. When all was finally over, the most surprising occurrence for them both was the oddly welcome expanse of quiet and mundane routine that stretched endlessly between them. John had retreated to dwell with the ordinary and Sherlock had not reached across that gulf to beckon him back…until now, when they went to Mearcstapa. And still after all this time, amends had not yet been truly made.

John's thoughts had taken scant seconds while his fingers had palpated the skin over the whip marks, blanching the pink coloration with the pressure of his thumb. When he removed the pressure, the scars flushed with rosy hue.

Sherlock stiffened, flinched and shifted his shoulders to pull away from John's touch.

"Does that hurt?"

"Knew this was a mistake," Sherlock grumbled, roughly pulling his dressing gown collar up to his neck and buttoning his shirt. "I never wanted you to see those."

Determined despite feeling awkward, John cleared his throat. This was it. It was time to make amends. "We've never discussed this," he patted Sherlock's back one more time, "and what you did..."

"And there's no need to now!" Sherlock snapped, looking up at John with a fierce glare he rarely used.

John ignored him. "When the radiologist sent me the report from your x-rays, she said you'd had multiple fractures before. She dated those fractures as several years back…the years you were…dead."

Sherlock abruptly pushed away from the table, bypassed John, and left the kitchen. He stomped about the sitting room before flinging himself on the sofa—a mistake, since it gave him pain. After gasping at his foolishness, he stared at the ceiling as if hoping John would be daunted by his tantrum and leave. "Go! You mustn't be late," he shooed John off with his hands, another move that made him wince. John stubbornly remained, but Sherlock refused to look at him.

John leant against the threshold between the kitchen and sitting room, wondering to himself,  _Why, Sherlock? Why don't you want me to know what happened? Why didn't you want me to see those scars—?"_  A sudden, unwanted revelation widened John's eyes and made his mouth gape, "Oh, so this's why I wasn't your doctor anymore? You didn't want me asking you questions about—?"

"—things best left in the past, John," Sherlock muttered hoarsely. "Things long forgotten…terrible things..."

"—the sacrifices you made for us?"

They had spoken simultaneously, so each paused to register what the other had said. John held his breath, waiting this time for Sherlock to say more, but Sherlock remained mute.

 _Okay, if that's the way you want it,_  John decided,  _and even if you don't, I'll go first._

"Right! So listen, Sherlock, you remember that moment when the  _annoying_  French waiter turned out to be you? I…I…I …hmmm….we both know how things went from there, but…but … I was so _bloody_  mad!" The memory provoked a shame-faced grin. "After years of grieving for you, I really didn't think I was being so irrational—" John recalled going for the throat of his revenant friend...  _okay, that was irrational._  "I took it hard and took it out on you, but not once, Sherlock, did I stop to think, never imagined I was causing more trauma to your existing injuries. That what I did must have reopened those wounds…," John stopped and waited. This time, his patience was rewarded.

"It was well worth the wounds, John," Sherlock admitted softly, inspecting the ceiling he had long-ago memorized, "to ensure the mission was completed and that ... you… my friends were safe."

"Yeah...still think you were misguided in excluding me….." John muttered, but after a quick inhale, he tried again, "What you did...the mission you completed _..._ and... and that you came back... I never...," John sighed, words of gratitude still seemed inadequate, but they needed to be spoken just the same. He bowed his head and stared at his shoes, "So, thank you for …saving us. Thank you for saving me. Thank you for... being... Not. Dead."

Sherlock turned his head toward John; a pensive expression had replaced his petulant one. He carefully pushed himself upright on the sofa and ran his hands through his hair. Keeping his clear eyes focused on John, he said, "Your life being spared was thanks enough. Nor did I hold your anger against you. You were entitled... my decision had caused you—" he paused for a correction, " _I_  had caused you great anguish. Not considering the impact of grief on you was both selfish and unforgivable...and despite that, you forgave me. How could I protest that you had moved on with Mary? She was your fiancée, then your wife, and baby made you a family of three. I would not interfere with your chance at happiness. Wasn't that what you really wanted?"

"Yeah, but I told you … oh, that's right, you weren't listening," John countered softly, "that _two_  people had turned my life around, changed everything for me, Mary and you. Of course, now there's Rosie, too…happiness for me was being surrounded by…the people I love the most in all this world…"

Again, Sherlock seemed not to be listening. "Happiness is defined as a  _'sense of well-being, joy, or contentment. When people are successful, or safe, or lucky, they feel happiness.'_  I had only begun to understand what it meant to find happiness in others, not just in my work or in my accomplishments or working alone as I had done for so long." Words tumbled rapidly now, an avalanche of truths, as if he couldn't hold back what he had long rehearsed in his mind, "I found I  _preferred_  your company on an investigation—something new to me. Your friendship, John, awakened in me something which I'd been missing, something which only since revisiting Musgrave I've realize I had lost. When Moriarty threatened you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, I chose, John,  _chose_  to keep you safe. What I could not foresee was how much I would have to learn about genuine sacrifice, about causing and enduring grief…and the esteemable value of friendship. Caring about others comes at a steep price. It's exhausting." Emptied, Sherlock covered his face with his hands.

John dropped into his soft armchair, stunned as much by the truth as by Sherlock being so open in expressing it. "This sort of stuff" was difficult to impossible for Sherlock, actually for them both.  _Hell,_  John had rather rush for the door and escape, then sit down and talk. After all, he had an easy excuse: he was late for the UCH lecture. Amends needed to be made, however, and John would not back down now. He gripped the armrests and held his ground.

"Welcome to the human race, Sherlock," John said at last behind a gentle smile. "Yeah, I admit, sometimes I had my doubts about you, but really, I'm not surprised." He paused, "What did you mean…terrible things?" Instantly, John remembered the shock of seeing Sherlock shoot Magnussen, execution style, on that unforgettable Christmas day:  _That kind of thing?_

Sherlock pulled his hands away from his face, and still sitting, eased slowly against the sofa back. He did not answer; his expression became guarded, inscrutable, his eyes, adamantine.

Nevertheless, John recognized in his friend the face of a combatant haunted by deeds of war. "You know, Sherlock, as a soldier, even though I was a doctor, I had been trained to fight, an absurd contradiction when you think about it. We had been conditioned to see our enemies on the battlefield not as human beings, but as labeled, objectified things _, terrible_ things. Of course, in the operating theatre, it was altogether different, their lives needed saving. Yet, when we were engaged in combat, we were expected to do what was necessary to defend our comrades, our country, ourselves. It was called justified kill‒…"

"—In the name of justice," Sherlock interrupted, his eyes boring into John's, his voice weighed with emotion, "in the name of protecting the safety of my friends, my country, the world, I met brutal force with brutal force, I did 'what was necessary,' John!"

They locked eyes for a long moment. John waited silently, patiently, until Sherlock could continue.

"My scars—these—" Sherlock flung his hand toward his back, his voice aggravated and ragged, "were not for you or anyone to see, not to earn sympathy or respect that I certainly don't deserve. I told you I'm no hero," Sherlock's gaze drifted past John, seeing Moriarty on St. Bart's rooftop, hearing the cold threat in his own words.  _"I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."_

That had been no idle threat—those words had become more prophetic than Sherlock had ever anticipated. He shoved aside the searing memories and rose from the sofa. He paced a bit and although he took his leather chair opposite John, his focus remained distant, evasive, unable to connect with his friend. "Moriarty had accused me of being on the side of the angels.  _Angels!_ " Sherlock scoffed. "I may have worked on the side of angels, but I never felt like one..." That is, Sherlock admitted silently, not until he discovered what it meant to have a friend... to be befriended by a man like John Watson.

Fidgeting, Sherlock pulled his long legs up and tucked them under his body, as if to brace himself to expose the full truth, the truth he owed John. "Except... you, John... changed me...It seems my self-imposed isolation, a result of loss I couldn't remember, was crumbling because of you... but then the work to disentangle Moriarty's web was..." Sherlock shook his head and finally met John's eyes, "You wouldn't have recognized me. Had James Moriarty lived to see how I dismantled his global network, he would have realized he was wrong, too. While I can never forget the things I've done, it was necessary…to save world interests and my friends from his nefarious international enterprises. That's all, these are the last words that ever need to be said about it," Sherlock snapped, unfolding his legs and slumping into his chair.

Moved by Sherlock's raw honesty, John fumbled for words, "I understand."

"No, John, you don't understand  _this_." Sherlock averted his eyes, his voice now heavy, tormented, "Working as an operative against Moriarty's army of henchmen blurred the lines for me. At first, I fooled myself, believing it was merely my clever act, my impenetrable disguise, but I gloried in it. It heightened my keen observational skills like never before, it honed my intuitiveness, and challenged my ability to assume false identities. I felt at the top of my game, except it became too easy for me to disassociate from the social mores I had held to, from the good conscience that had always guided me; I crossed the line more than once, finding it took little effort to slip into the high-functioning sociopath I'd always professed I was. This cold-blooded potential in myself, even more than the acts of warfare, has haunted me."

 _John Watson, you keep me right!_  Sherlock had said at the Watson's wedding, knowing full well—after his terrible fall from grace—how much more he valued his connection to John; when he returned, it retethered him to humanity.

"How fitting was it, after all," Sherlock continued with bowed head, "to learn the truth about the demons beneath, about my sister Eurus? Until then, I had not known that my latency for evil was a shared family trait. It's plain that I've balanced on the razor's edge of madness for years and that with one slip, I could become a monster like her—"

"No, no, no," John protested hoarsely, struck by the shocking revelation of Sherlock's deepest fear. "No! You aren't Eurus…" His quiet voice deepened with conviction. "Granted, you're a tad eccentric, insanely rational, but certainly not mad. And what you did for us...for me... I don't care what you say, you are ...our...," John sighed and nodded his head, " _my_...hero. It shows you know innately that emotional context matters. Eurus feels nothing. Emotional context mystifies her. You may have had setbacks from childhood, but you're  _not_  her," John pulled forward in his seat and gripped Sherlock's knee to reassure him. "Besides, you just told me that you actually care about people…and I know it's true because I saw that in you...I see that in you now." John pushed back, shook his head and whispered more to himself. "You're not a monster!"

 _"He is the cleverest man in the world, but he's not a monster,"_  John recalled arguing with the Mary in his mind—that side of himself who saw Sherlock Holmes more clearly.

 _"Yeah, he is."_ His angry side had retorted.

 _"Yeah, okay, all right, he is. Urgh!"_ Even in his imaginations he could hear Mary's soft chuckle _, "But he's_ our _monster."_

"Truth is, Sherlock," John took a deep breath, "there's a monster in each of us—" He had hardly uttered those words when his thoughts flew to that moment of monstrous rage, his fist slamming into Sherlock's face, his kicks impacting his friend's vulnerable viscera; Sherlock lying crumpled, beaten and bloody on the floor. The memory evoked remorse and shame that twisted in his gut. He swallowed hard to keep his emotions in check, "... monsters even in an ordinary man, like me. I'm so sorry..."John's voice hitched and he closed his eyes, letting the words spill, "really sorry about that, Sherlock."

When he reopened them, the iridescent eyes staring back at John shone with abiding affection.

Registering Sherlock's profound reaction to his words, John flushed with an inner warmth, his own lips quivering. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, stalling to regain his composure. It took a moment to find his normal voice, "Some hide their monsters better than others; most of us have the self-control to fight the compulsion to indulge them. But you, Sherlock," he emphasized with a tilt of his head, "you are the most mentally disciplined person I've ever met. If anyone has the ability to control his monster, you do! Believe me; you're no worse than the lot of us and I've seen the worst that men can be and do."

They sat quietly for a long while, facing but not looking at each other, neither feeling awkward nor the need to speak further. However, for two men who were rubbish at talking, there had been significant progress. Many things that they had left unsaid for so long had been said and amends for oversights had begun in earnest between them. The burden of dark secrets seemed suddenly lifted in the comforting silence.

At last, John glanced at his watch and slapped the armrests to pull himself from his chair, "Well! Best be off. This chinwag wasn't in my diary for today—or  _ever_ —but it's all good now: Got to get back on schedule!"

"Not a monster, you say?" Sherlock was leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. His mouth twitched with the trace of a smile. John's words had given him faith in his capacity for human connections _—"helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes"_ —Sherlock had admitted in the jet to Mary after his aborted exile, but John's loyalty gave him hope about himself, about them, about their futures. "At least not like Harmen Grendel Cain, then?"

"What?  _Jesus_ , Sherlock!" John paused and looked askance at his friend. "You didn't…no, you didn't resort to …cannibalism…?" He shuddered at the thought and continued toward the flat door.

There was a sly grin on Sherlock's face and he licked his lips. "No. Never came up. But I have been wondering if Cain was such a terrible monster, at all? What if he were merely misunderstood by Winnie and perhaps not the horror Winnie accused him of being?"

"You ask that about a man who was a known cannibal?" John noted wryly over his shoulder. "Now, that's worrisome."

"Yeah, apart from that…but he cared about Winnie. He seemed to have the capacity for love," Sherlock had a strange glint in his eyes and excitement in his voice. "It has got me wondering about many possibilities, John. What if his ancestry were from a society where cannibalism was the norm and that his whole family participated in this practice? Not all cultures share the taboo. And what if he were the last of his kind? I recall Dr. Spencer saying she has never seen the likes of him physiologically. I doubt as a medical man, you have either, John. I have put in a request for the hospital to share the results of Cain's genetic testing. I'm also eager to learn, once the Norfolk forensic teams have finished excavating the remains and testing them, if Cain were the sole cannibal in Mearcstapa. I suspect he was not. Studies of the teeth plaque in his ancestors' remains would be telltale...all very fascinating..."

"You accuse me of having a vivid imagination!" John's eyes widen with skepticism and he shook his head. "So, you think he may  _not_  have killed and eaten his whole family when he was released from the Asylum?'

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe not have killed, but as they died off, maybe they were eaten. I have been researching the practice of some isolated, primitive cultures who only eat those who die."

"You mean like wayward hikers and impaled police officers...?" John frowned. "This is totally speculative, Sherlock. Even you have to admit it. Cain still hunted and killed them with his traps and weapons."

"Agreed," Sherlock nodded "to all your points, but his human victims—Winnie had a word for it... **furriners**... foreigners—invaded his territory. It might have been defensive. However, think about it, John? Cain didn't kill Winnie. He didn't consume her…and while it appears that he might have eaten his whole family, it has yet to be proven. I have to wonder: what kind of cannibalistic monster helps his ailing wife return to her kin to die? I realize we have no proof of this tenderness, this act of caring, but we have heard Winnie mention Cain's gift-giving behavior: the irises, trinkets, the books. It seems possible that this monster had a heart for one person. It changed him, John, as it inevitably must. And what Bane told Cain about Winnie broke his heart."

John stood silently, his hand resting on the doorknob. Head cocked in thought, he turned back around toward Sherlock, "Why d'ya think he was institutionalized at the Brumehelm Asylum?"

Sherlock glanced away and drummed his armrest with his fingers, "Regrettably I don't have that answer. As it is, we barely had one night to go through the local police reports and newspapers articles about mutilated livestock and pets. Perhaps one day we may be granted access to Cain's Asylum commitment letters, the ones you found in the roundhouse, for those answers. However,..." Sherlock stopped drumming and steepled his fingertips, resting them against his lips. "Bane described the Cain tot as 'the  _pippen,_  the sickly runt of the litter.' It would be interesting to discover if the runt had been caught in the act of animal mutilation and removed by the authorities against his family's wishes."

"Interesting, isn't it?" John observed. "He went in a runt, came out a giant. Whatever experiments they did to him there, do you think they made him stronger, more resistant to toxins? He had an unique physiology; it was no wonder Winnie thought he was an unholy monster."

"Now that's an astute insight, John," Sherlock grinned broadly, "which leads me to a question that the Forensic Scientific Investigators will be unable to answer. Who were the real monsters here, John?" Rising from his chair Sherlock joined John at the flat door, observing the effect of his question in the knitting of John's brows, in his frown and waited until the answer dawned in John's eyes.

"I see what you mean, Sherlock," John grinned slowly in agreement. "If you're right about Bane, that he told Cain about Winnie, then he did a monstrous thing. Certainly, terror, misconceptions, and hatred turned Winnie into a monster, too. She said it herself, on the tape, although from her perspective, she thought she was defending herself and preventing him from attacking others. Can't help feeling that she was right about that. She had motive to murder him and she saw no other choice, so it's hard to fault her. Even so, from what we learnt about her, she was not a gentle soul to begin with. You know, come to think about it, if Winnie had not gone off with Cain, and instead married Bane, she would have eaten him alive…"

Sherlock snorted in amusement at John's blatant metaphor and held his side. "Are you trying to kill me, John?"

"Wouldn't think of it," John affectionately squeezed Sherlock's arm. "Besides, who would call me when there's another case? By the way, I think you've hit upon a workable solution, one I can be happy with, so again, thank you." John looked at his watch, "And now, I do have to get back. You  _will_  call…right?"

"Trust me," Sherlock nodded.

"I do," John smiled, opened the flat door and hurried down the stairs.

" _John!_ " A though grabbed Sherlock; he called sharply from the top landing and swiftly descended halfway.

John paused and swiveled at the base of the staircase, his hand resting on the carved newel post, surprise had twinned with curiosity in his upturned face.

Looking down at his friend, Sherlock pressed his lips in a thin line, suddenly awkward, wanting to do the right thing, wanting to acknowledge the immense gratitude that was welling up inside him. A smile flickered in his eyes, "Thank you," was all he said.

"Right," John puzzled with pursed lips, "Of course..." his eyelids fluttered with confusion and he tilted his head, "for what?"

Myriad reasons, like lightning, zig zagged through Sherlock's brain, but not one could be captured by words. "Better hurry," Sherlock urged John with a head nod and a lopsided grin. Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heel and went back up the stairs.

At the top Sherlock listened. As John closed the front door, Sherlock went to the open window and pulled back the drape to observe his friend. John's jaunty gait indicated he was pleased. After John was out of sight, Sherlock closed the window and went back to the kitchen. John's tea was nearly untouched. His own was tepid. He dumped their contents and considered resuming his experiment when he paused. Removing a small notebook from his dressing gown pocket, Sherlock turned the pages until he found the one titled  _"The John Experiment."_  Underneath he wrote the dates of their adventure and added with a flourish in his distinctive hand "success!" There was room, ample room for many other entries and Sherlock was happy about that.

888***888

THE END

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